


Wayward Sons

by dracoqueen22



Series: Wayward Sons [1]
Category: The Transformers (Cartoon Generation One), Transformers (Bay Movies), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Interfacing of all flavors, M/M, Minor Character Death, Original Character(s), dark themes, possibly triggering content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-26
Updated: 2013-08-26
Packaged: 2017-12-24 16:57:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 45,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/942341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snapshots of an alternate history where twins Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were raised separately, without knowledge of each other, on a planet in turmoil, fast approaching an all-encompassing civil war. Family forms your past, history defines your present, but the future is what you make of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> We all grow up with the weight of history on us.  Our ancestors dwell in the attics of our brains as they do in the spiraling chains of knowledge hidden in every cell of our bodies.  ~Shirley Abbott
> 
> Special thanks to fuzipenguin for the original prompt/idea and her support. Thanks to ladydragon76 as well for her cheerleading. Without either of them, this fic would have never existed.

His first memory is of pain.

Love intermingles, along with images of Wirelight, his guardian and caretaker. But mostly there is pain. It radiates through his chassis, tingles along every sensory node, but centers in his spark chamber.

His spark feels overlarge and hot. He cannot ventilate around the agony.

It is barely two orns after his ensparking that Wirelight has to rush him to the nearest medical center. He hasn't been able to learn much of anything from Wirelight, who had requested a newspark to raise and make his own. Wirelight wants somemech to help him with his business, be a second pair of servos, and eventually, maybe even branch into his own specialty.

The pain becomes too much.

He remembers his HUD spitting errors at him, so many that he cannot identify or decode them all. Most are beyond his level of functioning to understand. That comprehension would have come with time, maturation, and upgrades.

He is only two orns into his functioning and all he knows is pain.

He remembers the fear and the worry in Wirelight's optics. He remembers grey servos wringing together, pale optics and hunched shoulders.

The medical center is a blur of colors and sights and sounds. A nauseating melange of input that make his tank roil and reject its mid-grade contents. The energon splatters on his own chestplate, painting the bright red with stripes of sour pink.

The pain swells and builds inside of him. He remembers groaning, reaching for something to steady him. Servos grab his wrists, pinning them down. He remembers flailing, shouting, whining in confusion.

The first thing he remembers is pain.

And then something in his chamber snaps. And all he knows is darkness.

* * *

 


	2. Carry On

**Act I – Sideswipe**

He grimaces and rubs his chestplate, that old ache returning as it always does – when he least expects it and without warning.

“Does it hurt, Sideswipe?” 

Plastering a grin on his lipplates, Sideswipe climbs down from the ladder, shaking his helm. “Nope. Just a twinge. Must've reached too high or something.” 

He feels, more than sees, his caretaker's sharp gaze raking him from helm to pede. Wirelight never takes him at his word when it comes to his health. “Do I need to scan you, sparkling?” 

“Not a sparkling,” he counters, throwing a look over his shoulder and sticking out his glossa. He hops down from the ladder with an acrobatic twist. “And no, you don't. I'm fine. Primus, you worry too much.” 

“You give me reason.” Wirelight rises to his pedes and strides up to Sideswipe, thumping the taller mech on the chestplate with his servo. “After all, you spent a decaorn in the clinic. Nearly gave me a spark attack.” 

Sideswipe doesn't remember much about that incident. Just pain and darkness and then waking up to Wirelight's relief and the absence of a once-familiar pain. There was a residual ache in his chassis, a sense of something missing, but the pain was gone. 

His grin widens, shifting out of Wirelight's reach and grabbing the ladder, sliding it along the track. He has inventory to complete. “Yeah, but I've been a mech of optimal construction ever since. Not so much as a creaky joint.” 

“You do make a caretaker proud.” Wirelight returns to the stool propped up behind the counter, his optics watching their few in-house customers roaming the aisles. Their main trade is in supply and demand for several contractors, the store is merely supplementing their income. “I'm thinking you're about ready for your next frame upgrade.” 

“Really?” Excitement floods Sideswipe's spark as the ladder screeches in well-worn protest. “You said it would be another metacycle.” 

“You are an optimal construction.” Wirelight flashes amusement over his shoulder, beaming with pride. “Haven't you noticed a lag in your processing as of late?” 

Sideswipe snags his datapad from where he'd magnetized it to his thigh panel, returning to his counting, top shelf first. “A little. Not enough to be bothersome yet.” 

“That is how you know it's time. Why, give it a vorn and you'll be ready for your second frame.” 

The ladder jutters beneath him as Sideswipe gives an excited hop. “Are you serious?” 

Wirelight chuckles. “I am.” 

Sideswipe cannot contain his excitement. He leaps from the ladder, throws his arms around his caretaker's shoulders and embraces Wirelight from behind. “Thank you!”

“You still have a vorn, sparkling,” Wirelight says, but he reaches up and pats one of Sideswipe's arms, nearly swallowed by his much larger ward. “Thank me then.” 

Warmth floods Sideswipe's spark. The last of the pain is a dull memory. 

“I will,” Sideswipe promises, squeezing Wirelight until his caretaker's frame gives a warning squeak. He's stronger than the salesmech by virtue of his construction. 

“Good mech. Now get back to work. Those supplies aren't going to count themselves,” Wirelight orders, but his vocals are too warm to be anything but teasing. 

“Sir, yes, sir!” Sideswipe throws out a playful salute and skips back to the ladder. 

An upgrade! And so soon. He can't wait!

o0o0o

“I'm ready. Give me another.”

Wirelight looks him over with a critical optic, a shade so pale it is more purple than blue. “You haven't had time to assimilate the last one.” 

Sideswipe squirms in his chair. “Sure I have!” he boasts and waggles his digits hopefully. “Please, Wirelight? I'll get bored otherwise.” 

His caretaker chuckles. “We can't have that. Fine.” Wirelight opens a panel on his forearm and removes a tiny datachip. 

Sideswipe reaches for it, but Wirelight pulls it out of his reach. 

“But,” he says, with a warning waggle of his digit, “if you overdo it and get a processor ache, I won't give you any inhibitors. Let that be a warning.” 

Psssh. When has Sideswipe ever abided by those?

“I won't,” he promises and leans forward, optics on the prize. “I swear I can handle statistics. Mathematics was a breeze.” 

Wirelight gives him another one of those searching looks. “If you say so,” he says, tone conveying reluctance. He hands over the datachip. “Download away, my mechling.” 

“Not a mechling,” Sideswipe retorts with a roll of his optics. He was never a mechling, not even in the beginning. Youngling, yes. But not a mechling. Or a sparkling for that matter. 

He all but snatches up the chip, snapping it into the datapad that's been attached to his systems by his singular and slow data cable. Wirelight assures him that his next frame will have better upload systems, faster, more efficient, and more numerous. One interface port in each arm for starters! He can learn twice as fast if he wants. 

Wirelight chuckles, rising from his chair and leaving Sideswipe to his downloads. Despite his eagerness, it will still take some time to assimilate all of the data. 

“You will always be a mechling to me,” Wirelight comments with true affection in his tone. “Even if you are bigger than me.” 

Sideswipe grins, digit tapping away on the datapad as he queues in the chip and selects everything on it. He can always delete what he doesn't want later.

This is so exciting! The more he learns, the more he can help Wirelight around the shop. Doing inventory is helpful, or so Wirelight says, but it's also boring and Sideswipe hates to be bored. These datachips are going to take care of all that!

Except for the niggle of sadness that burrows its way into Sideswipe's spark all of a sudden. He frowns, digit hovering over the datapad, prepared to initiate the download but hesitating. 

It's there, a tiny thread of sorrow, wrapping around his glee and threatening to choke it. Sideswipe ventilates carefully, his orbital ridge drawing down. 

“Sideswipe?” 

“I... uh...” Words fail him. His free servo clenches and unclenches. He fidgets on his chair, the datapad blinking expectantly at him. 

His HUD isn't registering anything as malfunctioning. But there should be no reason for the onset of sadness. 

“What's wrong?” Wirelight demands, quick pedesteps announcing his return, crossing the floor in swift strides. “Sideswipe?” 

“I just...” He shakes his helm, looking at his caretaker. “I don't know. I feel sad all of the sudden.” 

His spark aches and he touches his chestplate with his free hand, as though that will soothe the emotion swelling within. 

Wirelight frowns and reaches for the datapad. “You're taking on too much. Let's wait on statistics.” 

“No.” Sideswipe says, clamping the datapad to his chestplate and angling his frame away from his caretaker. “I can handle it.” 

Wirelight dips his helm, his optics setting with a familiar sternness. “Sideswipe, you obviously cannot if your emotional subroutines are malfunctioning.”

“They aren't,” he protests and tightens his arms around the datapad. It might be metacycles before Wirelight lets him try again! “I swear. It doesn't have anything to do with my uploads. Please, don't take it away.” 

An exasperated huff escapes his caretaker's vents. “And how would you know? You're not a trained medic.” Wirelight pauses, his frown deepening. “Perhaps I should take you to a medical center.” 

“I'm fine!” Sideswipe winces, and promptly dials back his vocalizer. It's not going to help him to yell at his caretaker. “Really, I am. It's already going away.” 

It's not entirely a lie. The weird emotion is getting more and more muted, but it's still there, in the back of his spark, like an involuntary subroutine that Sideswipe rarely notices is always there. 

A tense silence stretches between Sideswipe and his caretaker. 

Finally, Wirelight withdraws with a shake of his helm. “Why I cannot say no to you, I will never fathom.” He gives Sideswipe a stern look. “If you feel even an inkling of ache in your processor, you will cease immediately. Understood?” 

“I promise.” 

Reluctance is written into Wirelight's expression, but he doesn't protest any further. He leaves Sideswipe to his uploading with nothing more than a gimlet optic. 

Success.

o0o0o

It is past closing time and Wirelight still hasn't returned. Sideswipe checks his chronometer, worry growing in steady increments with each passing klik.

Wirelight is never late. Though he trusts Sideswipe with their shop, there's still a lot left for Sideswipe to learn. Besides, they always close up together and go for energon afterward. Always. 

Sideswipe twitches behind the counter. He's been watching the broadcasts. He's heard all about the civil unrest lately, practically outside their front door. Wirelight's smart. He wouldn't get involved in that mess. But that doesn't preclude him getting caught in the crossfire. 

Worry gnaws at his spark. 

Sideswipe tries Wirelight's comm again and gets nothing but static. 

He gets up, circles around the counter and starts to pace. The shop is empty of customers, and has been for the past joor. 

He unshutters the window, peering into the dark street. Wirelight tells stories of a Cybertron anchored by a sun, but not anymore. The exterior lighting still cycles on as though they have a sun, giving the illusion of solar cycles. 

It is night-cycle. The streets are deserted, which is unusual. It's not so late that curfew is in effect. 

Sideswipe hears the sirens before he sees them, a squad of Enforcers blaring down the street. Red and orange lights flash alarmingly and a voice booms for citizens to stay indoors and away from windows. 

The band of worry around Sideswipe's spark tightens. 

Wirelight's comm bleats more static. 

His servos tremble as he keys the door shut behind him, stepping into the quiet and deserted streets. There aren't even any Empties in the alley across the way. But there is the distant roar of something big. 

Sideswipe follows the sounds of sirens and indistinct shouting, breaking into a light jog. He can't wait for his second frame, for his alt-mode. This would be so much faster with some wheels or a hover-generator. 

Fear worms its way through his circuits. Sideswipe whips around a corner and skids to a surprised halt, noise bombarding him from all directions. Dear Primus. So this is where everyone has gone. 

Several blocks down and there's a huge gathering of mechs and femmes of all sizes and colors. They're shouting and yelling and crying. Sirens blare and energon slicks the street. The air is heavy with smoke and the sharp tang of burnt metal. Sideswipe's optics cycle outward in distress. 

Mechs are pushing and shoving, yelling about things that don't make sense. It's a cacophony of demands, words indistinguishable. Worse so when more Enforcers arrive, wading into the crowd. Some of the gathered citizens scatter, but most remain, a surging tide of fury and dissatisfaction. 

Chaos is everywhere. Sideswipe looks and peers through the crowd and his comm keeps relaying static. 

Shouting for Wirelight is useless. There's too much other noise. But Wirelight must be in this mess. He has to be. 

Sideswipe's only a first frame, smaller than all the third-frame adults clustered in the streets. It's easier to slip through the crowd, but everyone's pushing and shoving and he trips on something, crashing to the ground. 

His hand skitters through a slick of energon. He looks down, stares in horror at the offline mech beneath him, their legs tangled. Dark optics and an open mouth and a gaping hole in the mech's chassis, still smoking. Blaster fire erupts over his head and the citizens shout and an Enforcer demands order but no one's listening. 

Sideswipe stays on his servos and knees, crawling through a sea of legs, desperate to find his caretaker. He wants to find Wirelight and go home and get out of this madness. The smoke is getting thicker, someone tramples on his digits, and fear eclipses everything else in his spark. 

Until he sees Wirelight. 

He sees an Enforcer, fingers locked around his caretaker's wrist, dragging Wirelight's frame off the street. He sees dribbles of energon staining his caretaker's usually immaculate paint. 

Confusion takes precedence and Sideswipe scrambles to his feet, lurching over the slick street. 

“What are you doing?” he demands, latching onto Wirelight's frame, small servos scrabbling over scorched plating that is still small in comparison to his own. 

The Enforcer cycles his optics, looking surprised. “Clean up, mechlet. Go home.” 

What the frag? 

“No! Let my caretaker go!” Sideswipe gives a firm tug, not that it does much. Why hadn't he pushed to upframe sooner!

The Enforcer gives him a startled look, visor flashing a flat hue. “You know this mech?” 

“I just said it, didn't I?” Sideswipe hooks his fingers in Wirelight's plating, refusing to let go, staring at his caretaker who's not waking up and still feeding him static. 

Wirelight's frame crashes to the ground as the Enforcer drops him and grabs Sideswipe, hauling the younger mech away with ridiculous ease. “Look, mechlet,” the Enforcer all but growls. “Your caretaker's offline. There isn't anything you can do for him.” 

Sideswipe squirms, disbelief rising to the fore, trying to twist his way out of the mech's grasp. But his arms might as well be solid duryllium. “You're lying.” 

Static. He's just getting static. And Wirelight's optics are dark and he's not moving and there's no trace of an energy field. 

“He said he was coming right back,” Sideswipe says, vocalizer crackling. “We only needed a new chip! He said, he said...” His vocalizer sputters to a stop. 

The Enforcer mutters an invective subvocally. “He's gone,” the mech says, gentler than earlier, though he doesn't loosen his grasp. “I'm sorry, but he's gone.” 

Wirelight's supposed to be smart. He said he didn't want anything to do with all that civil madness. He just wanted to keep his shop alive. 

Sideswipe sags, staring. Gone. Wirelight's gone. It doesn't make any sense. It's not right. 

How can he be gone?

o0o0o

“I can do it!” His fist pounds the table, making a stylus leap into the air and roll off the table, onto the ground.

“No, you cannot,” says the mech in front of him, his tone flat and bored, as flat as his dull brown paint job. “Legally, you are a first-frame, a bare step above a youngling. You cannot own or manage property.”

“You belong in an orphanage,” added the second mech, frame equally plain. 

Sideswipe's plating ruffles. “Those sound like excuses,” he argues, spark fluttering in his chassis. “I have all the downloads I need. I know what I'm supposed to do.” 

The brown mech, whose designation Sideswipe has purposefully forgotten, shakes his helm again. “It does not matter. There are laws, Sidestep.” 

He grinds his denta, optics cycling down. “Side _swipe_ ,” he corrects. Not that either of them care what his designation is. Their greedy servos are too busy trying to take control of Wirelight's shop. 

And frag it all, but they are succeeding. There's slag all Sideswipe can do about it. 

The second mech drones on in a listless tone, “Wirelight's properties and assets will be auctioned and sold to cover the costs of his internment and your care.” It is a statement of fact, not a request for Sideswipe's agreement. “Unfortunately, he did not have enough assets to leave anything for your convenience.” 

That's a lie and Sideswipe knows it. Greedy little fraggers! He and Wirelight worked hard for those creds. He deserves them!

“I don't need to go to an orphanage,” Sideswipe insists, digits curling against the table, feeling every lacking helm that these two third-frame adults have on him. 

Brown mech taps his datapad and tucks it under his arm. “You have no choice. The law in this matter is clear. As Wirelight has no designated guardian, your care has become a matter for the city of Perihex.” 

Sideswipe opens his mouth, only to shut it again. 

They are not going to help him. He can see it in their optics. They don't care that his caretaker has died and Sideswipe is alone. All they can see are the credits and a first-frame burden. And Sideswipe doesn't have the creds to hire someone to fight the law for him. 

He's been fighting a losing battle from the moment the two mechs approached him in the hall of the medcenter. 

Sideswipe's shoulders sink, his optics falling to the table. “Can I least pack?” 

He catches the sharp bite of satisfaction before one of the mechs battens it down. “You have a breem,” he says flatly. “Take only what you need.” 

Sideswipe nods and eases away from the table, trying to look obedient and contrite. The display seems to work because the two case-workers don't pay him another glance. 

He quits the room, hurrying down the hallway, spark a twisting mass in his chassis. He doesn't have a lot of time. They'll get impatient. 

Sideswipe can't do this. He can't sit here and watch them take apart and sell everything he and Wirelight worked hard to build. He can't be shipped off to some half-way home and probably sold to the highest bidder. Or worse, they'd reformat him in a sparkbeat. No one wants to finish raising a first-frame with downloads. Sideswipe's heard the stories. Frag, no.

He closes the door behind him, stares at the cozy and confined space of his room. It's small. He and Wirelight shared a lot of space. But it's home and it's not going to be much longer and Sideswipe's ventilations hitch. 

Focus. 

He dives under the berth, drags out a bag he used when he and Wirelight traveled to other cities looking to make deals on merchandise, and starts to throw things into it. Anything he can think of that he might need. Polishing supplies, spare credits, an emergency medkit and every cube of energon he can fit. 

His optics linger on a vidtrack of Wirelight, his caretaker grinning and confident as he stands in front of their new shop. 

His chronometer reminds him that time is short. 

Sideswipe grabs the frame, throws open the window, and shimmies down the side of the modest structure he and Wirelight had called home for so long. 

He'd rather be on the streets than in a halfway house. Slag that. 

From now on, he's on his own.

o0o0o

He runs out of energon by the end of the first quartrex. No one wants to hire him and his only skills are useless without a patron. He has nowhere to live, no place to call home, and his tanks are grinding on empty.

The first time he steals to survive, Sideswipe's spark contracts in fear and guilt. Wirelight had taught him better than this. But Wirelight couldn't have anticipated this turn of events either. 

He sleeps in the alleys and the gutters or abandoned warehouses. There are usually other mechs around him, just as homeless and miserable as he. Sideswipe pretends not to see them, and they return the courtesy. There's no camaraderie among them, all lonely despite not being alone. 

Once, he trips on an Empty and has to scramble to escape, before the starved mech can bite and tear, desperate for a scrap of energon. 

Sideswipe wonders if getting reformatted by the halfway house might be the better option after all. Especially when it starts to rain, the sky dripping acid in searing trickles of armor-pitting liquid. Sideswipe runs, like so many other mechs, but he doesn't have a home to call safety and takes shelter in an alley, protruding balconies forming a protective overhang. 

It isn't until he hears the sound of metal shifting on metal, the hiss of hydraulics, that he realizes he's not alone. Dear Primus, he prays it's not an Empty. He doesn't have anywhere else to go. 

A sound, like disdain, rattles through the narrow space. “Yer no client. And yer no competition either.” 

Empties don't talk. They barely function. 

Sideswipe relaxes by degrees, though he peers into the dim, trying to see more of the speaker. “No. I'm just looking for a shelter from the rain. I'll leave as soon as it’s over.” 

A shuffle of pedesteps and then dingy plating steps into view. It might have been white once upon a time. Then again, Sideswipe's own plating is not so much bright anymore as it is scraped and dented and a dull grey-red. “And go where? Mechs don't dart into dark alleys if they got somewhere better ta be.” Optics a flat shade of gold cycle at him. “And judgin' by the state of yer frame, yer two kliks away from droppin'.” 

Sideswipe's hand presses to his abdomen, above his tank, feeling it gurgle and cycle on empty. “Don't have a much of a choice, I guess.” 

“Always gotta choice.” The mech gets closer, a full-frame adult by appearance, looming over Sideswipe by a couple helms. “Been a thief, yeah? Not earnin' much are ya? Mechs around here ain't got much to steal.” 

“Yeah, I noticed.” Sideswipe leans against the alley wall, sliding down it until his aft hits the debris-strewn ground. He's fraggin' exhausted. 

“There're other options, ya know.” The mech sits next to him, but not so close as to be uncomfortable. “Ya got a nice frame, even if it is dirty.” 

Sideswipe shoots his new acquaintance a sour look. “You're one to talk.” And then it registers exactly what the mech is suggesting. “And I'm not doing that.” 

The mech smirks. “One orn, you'll get hungry enough.” 

“I'd rather offline,” Sideswipe declares, full conviction in his tone. He can weather being a thief, but selling his frame is not going to happen. 

A raspy chuckle emerges from the mech's vocalizer. “Then maybe living is not fer you.” 

“I'll find something else.” Sideswipe draws his knees up, bracing his arms across them. “Besides, I don't have the upgrades.” 

The mech rolls his shoulders, a squeak of unoiled hydraulics barely audible above the fall of the rain. “Some mechs like that kind of thing.” He shifts, and the dim glow of a cube fills the alley. “Here.” 

Sideswipe cycles his optics. “What?”

“S'energon,” the mech says, pushing it closer to him. “Low grade and tastes like slag, but better 'n nothing.” 

Sideswipe reaches for it, his tanks clenching angrily, only to hesitate. “Why?” 

“I guess I feel sorry for ya.” He wiggles the cube in Sideswipe's direction and with his tank clenching, Sideswipe takes it. 

“Thanks,” he murmurs, the scent of a very low grade filtering through his nasal receptors. 

“What's yer designation?”

Sideswipe swirls the cube around before taking a sip, some of the grit lingering on his glossa. “Sideswipe. You?”

“Drift.” He tilts his helm, optics bleak and unyielding. “You're safe fer now. This here's my territory. Though I'm not so nice as ta keep feedin' ya.” 

It takes effort to swallow down the cube. Though Sideswipe is far from ungrateful. “I'll leave when the rain stops.” 

“Fraggin' acid,” Drift grumbles with a rumble of his energy plant. “It's bad fer business.” 

He's got a point. The kilk the rain started, every mech in the street dove for cover either into shops or their own homes. And the moment it ends, Sideswipe knows every Cybertronian will head straight for home. At least, those that can. 

Bad for business indeed. 

Sideswipe finishes off the cube and hands it back to Drift, the buymech – he assumes – tucking it away in subspace. “Thanks.” 

Drift rolls his shoulders in a shrug. “That isn't going to keep you goin' fer long.” 

“Still...” Sideswipe rocks back on his aft, curling his arms around his drawn up knees. “It's more than anyone else has done.” 

“Round here, mechs got too little to care about others.” Drift tilts his helm back, peering through the eaves, watching the rain Sideswipe guesses. 

Sideswipe twists his digits together, the steady hiss of the rain filling the air between them. “Then why did you?” 

The buymech pulls a rag out of subspace, giving a few half-sparked swipes at his arm. “I guess because I'm a glitch,” he says and then releases a bitter laugh. “And too soft-sparked for my own good.” He looks up at Sideswipe, golden optics dim and flat. “I've been where you are now with no one to show me a bit of kindness. I thought maybe I oughta end the cycle.” 

“Was nice.” 

“Maybe.” Drift's rag scuffs over his armor, smearing the dust and rust more than cleaning. “Was selfish, too.” 

He doesn't say anything else, not even when Sideswipe prompts him, so they wait out the rain in silence.

o0o0o

Sideswipe promises to leave.

Drift insists that he do so but a quartrex later, Sideswipe is still hanging around and Drift hasn't outright told him to go. 

It's not home but it's a place to stay, to be safe. Drift's carved himself some territory and defends it viciously. Rumor has it he's even buddies with Turmoil, leader of the Perihex underground. 

He's popular, too. 

Sideswipe makes himself scarce when customers come to call, and it happens often enough. Maybe because Drift has all the upgrades and not just the standard package. A mech can come to him for a taste of all kinds of interfacing.

“S'what I was sparked fer,” Drift tells Sideswipe late one orn as they crouch together in the narrow confines of Drift's apartment. “Built fer. Some mech paid good creds for a commissioned slave with all the perks.” 

Sideswipe is appalled. “How did you escape?” 

“Didn't.” Drift grins at him, sharp like a knife. “My owner would've been better off with a drone. Vector Sigma gave him the wrong spark.” 

Sideswipe fiddles with his cube, meager rations because he's still no good at survival. “I'm surprised he didn't reformat you.” 

Drift arches an orbital ridge. “Oh, he did. Mebbe six, seven times.” He thumps his chestplate, producing a mild echo. “Spark is true.” 

“So he just threw you out?” Sideswipe can't imagine abandoning that much creds.

“Somethin' like that.” Drifts gaze shifts away, turning distant before he seems to shrug it off and taps Sideswipe on the shoulder with his fist. “Show me yer take.” 

Sideswipe digs around in his subspace, pulling out the creds, cubes, and other various tidbits he'd managed to acquire today. 

He knows, before Drift counts it, that he's no good. 

“Primus, that's pathetic,” Drift says with a grating laugh. “Ya ain't learned nothin', half-bit.” 

Sideswipe slumps. “I tried.” 

A servo whips out, slapping the back of his helm. “Not hard enough, obviously. I'll show ya everythin' again. And then you'll do better.”

Sideswipe can only hope so. Because he's taking advantage of Drift's kindness, though Drift won't call it that, and Sideswipe can't rely on the buymech forever. 

But Drift teaches him and Sideswipe is grateful, for all the tricks of the trade, like choosing a mark, acting like one, forcing access to a mech's subspace, everything. 

He doesn't ask why anymore because Drift gets fragged when Sideswipe asks too many questions. He doesn't say thank you, either, because Drift doesn't like gratitude. There are a lot of things Drift doesn't like but he seems to get along with Sideswipe, and for now, that suits Sideswipe just fine.

o0o0o

“Hey, Sideswipe, come here,” Drift says one orn, beckoning Sideswipe out of their shared apartment and into the street. “I got someone I want you to meet.”

Sideswipe balks, unease trickling through his insides. “Aw, come on, Drift. I toldya I don't want to go that far.” 

Drift rolls his optics, cuffing Sideswipe on the back of the helm, his favorite method of discipline. “Didn't I say I wasn't gonna make ya do that until ya wanted to?” He mutters something subvocally and turns on a pede, signaling again for Sideswipe to follow. 

“Yeah, but...” Sideswipe trails off, hurrying to catch up to Drift, difficult as it is since it's mid-orn and the streets are choked with mechs, all going about their business with little care for scurrying first-frames. “First time for everything.” 

“Not fer this,” Drift says and snags his arm, dragging him close. “Keep up, bitlet. I ain't waitin' around all orn.” 

“Not a bitlet,” Sideswipe mutters, but it's lost to the noise and haste of the crowd, mechs hawking their wares from market stalls lining the avenue, mechs and femmes alike chatting, and the noise of hundreds of engines throttling at full hurtle down the street. 

Drift leads them to a refinery of all places, an energon depot where those with actual creds can indulge in energon of all flavors and grades and design. Sideswipe's always been a mech on the outside looking in. He gets his energon from a general market down the road, which sells functional energon at decent prices. 

Inside, it is much quieter and calmer than the ruckus out in the streets. Drift seems to know exactly where he's going, leading Sideswipe to a corner where four mechs are crammed into a booth, cubes of energon stacked up on the table between them. 

One of the mechs notices Drift immediately, mouth splitting into a welcoming leer. “Drift,” he says, sliding out of the booth. “We've been waiting for you.” 

“I noticed,” Drift replies, gaze assessing the four. “It don't matter how much high grade you flash at me, I'm not givin' ya a discount.” 

Another of the mechs, the largest of them, laughs. “Couldn't handle all of us anyway.” 

“Whatcha got there?” A third asks, his visor concealing his optics as he tilts his helm to the side. “A first-frame? Whatever for?” 

Drift pulls Sideswipe to front and center, placing his hands on Sideswipe's shoulders. “I seem ta remember ya lookin' for a fifth member. Someone else to put out on the tracks.” 

“So you brought us a youngling?” The first mech asks, his vocals radiating skepticism. He steps closer, looking Sideswipe up and down. “He's got a good frame on him. How are his instincts?”

“I'm not a youngling,” Sideswipe retorts, bristling. “And I have a designation, you know.” 

Drift chuckles, patting his shoulders. “He's a mouthy thing but he's got good instincts. Sideswipe, this is Barricade, leader of the Race Track Patrol.” 

“He'd be easy to modify,” says the mech with a visor, his tones thoughtful. “Nice, sleek lines would translate to a good racing design.” 

Barricade smirks, jerking a digit over his shoulder. “That's Groundhog, our version of a medic. Across from him is Rollerforce, our arena mech, and next to him is Motorhead. He's about useless but we're working on it.” 

“Hey!” Motorhead protests, mouth flattening in a grim line. “I won my last two races, ya afthead!” 

Sideswipe frowns, understanding percolating slowly. “You're... racers?” he asks, though he's not sure what an arena mech is supposed to be. 

“Some of the best,” Motorhead boasts despite his earlier indignation, lounging back against the seat of the booth. “Barricade owns the circuits here in Perihex.” 

“How come I've never heard of you?” Sideswipe demands, planting his servos on his hips. “Seen you on the vids, or in the annewsments...” 

Rollerforce laughs, a hoarse and grating chuckle that echoes loudly in the refinery. “Oh, Drift. Where'd ya pick him up? He's precious.” He directs a long look at Sideswipe. “You actually think we're official racers, half-bit? Running circles in a track with all that glitz and glamor?” He laughs again, only stopping when Groundhog elbows him in a lateral seam. 

Sideswipe feels his faceplates burn and he crosses his arms over his chassis. “Okay, so you're underground racers. I get it.” 

“He's still a newbie. Don't be so rough on him.” Drift says, patting Sideswipe's shoulders one last time before drawing back. “But my life ain't fer him. He don't have what it takes to survive out here. So why don't you take him?” 

“Do I get a choice in this?” Sideswipe demands. 

Barricade arches an orbital ridge. “Sure you do. Stay here with Drift if you want. Upframe yourself, upgrade your interface, be a buymech. It's all the same to me.” He steps closer, poking Sideswipe in the chestplate. “Or you can earn some real creds with us. You got the attitude and maybe you got the talent. We'll see what that translates to on the track.” 

It's tempting. It's better than what he has now, living on the edge, stealing to survive. It's probably safer, too, and sounds a lot more exciting. 

But can he trust them? Drift must think so otherwise he wouldn't have introduced Sideswipe in the first place. 

“All right,” Sideswipe says, tilting his chin. “You think I can be a racer? I'll give it a try.” 

Rollerforce laughs, loud and raucous. “First, ya need an upframe. Ya won't get anywhere with that first frame.” 

“Skipping the second is nothing unusual,” Groundhog adds with a contemplative hum of his systems, optics measuring Sideswipe top to bottom. “Only nobles worry about all the stages.” 

Sideswipe hesitates. “I can't afford that kind of upgrade.” 

“Don't worry.” Barricade slings an arm over his shoulders, tugging him toward the booth. “If you're as good as you think you are, you'll earn our investment back tenfold.” 

He pushes Sideswipe into the booth and slides in beside him, nudging a cube of what appears to be mid-grade toward him. “Here. Drink up.”

“But...” Sideswipe cranes his neck, trying to see around Barricade but Drift is gone, vanished when Sideswipe wasn't looking. “He didn't let me thank him.” 

“His sort don't bother with that,” Motorhead says with a grin and lifts his cube in a semi-salute. “Welcome to the Patrol, half-bit, Barricade's Race Track Patrol.”

o0o0o

Upframing to first frame hadn't been nearly this nerve-wracking. But lying on the berth, cold as a slab of stone, and staring up at the sterile white light, Sideswipe feels his spark skipping several revolutions.

He doesn't trust Barricade to the full extent just yet, but he wants this upframe, wants an alt-mode and all the other perks of being a full adult. That doesn't stop him from being terrified. 

“Are you sure you want to stick with red?” Groundhog asks, coming into view with a datapad in servo, stylus flicking through several screens in rapid succession. 

“Yes,” Sideswipe replies, his optics darting around the tiny room that serves as the medical center of operations for Barricade's racing circuit. 

It's the color that Wirelight selected for him and though Sideswipe has nothing left of his original caretaker, he can honor Wirelight in this manner at least. 

Groundhog rolls his shoulders. “It's flashy at least,” he says, still consulting his datapad as he circles around the medberth. “Any preferences for your interface array?” 

Sideswipe feels his faceplates heat, though spending half a vorn with Drift should have inured him to this sort of thing. “Umm, the full package.” 

The datapad lowers, Groundhog giving him a long look over the edge of it. “Planning on following in Drift's pedesteps?” 

“No!” He all but lurches off the berth, laying back down when Groundhog presses his shoulder firmly. “I mean, no, but...” He trails off, embarrassment curling in his energy field. Do they have to talk about this now?

The stylus marks something on the datapad. “Full package it is,” Groundhog says and it's not nearly flat enough for Sideswipe to miss the curl of amusement. He steps closer, tapping the end of the stylus against Sideswipe's chestplate. “Open up. Let's see what you're hiding under there.” 

Sideswipe hesitates, though he doesn't know why. Groundhog's going to see it eventually. He'll have to for the frame transfer. But Sideswipe's had a whole functioning of medics looking at him funny because of his spark and it's kind of ingrained itself in him to hesitate. 

“Do you want the upframe or not?” Groundhog asks, starting to sound annoyed. 

Sideswipe fidgets, fingers plucking at the berth-covering beneath him. “I want it,” he mutters, and triggers the command to open his chestplates.

He offlines his optics and waits for it. 

“Hmm.” Groundhog leans over him, peering closer. “Well, that's... interesting.” 

Sideswipe ventilates loudly. “Yes, I know. I shouldn't even be online but I am and I'm not guttering anytime soon.” He onlines his optics again and gives Groundhog an aggrieved look. “So can we not talk about it?” 

The medic arches an orbital ridge at him. “Not talk about the fact your spark is one-third smaller than average? How do you even upframe?” 

“Very carefully,” Sideswipe grits out, remembering all too well the medics Wirelight had to cajole and bribe and wheedle into upframing Sideswipe the first time. It had cost Wirelight twice as much as it should have and Sideswipe had never forgotten that indignity. 

_Burden_. His spark had whispered such a word at him during the recovery afterward, but Wirelight had looked so pleased, utterly thrilled that his ward was doing so well, Sideswipe couldn't bring himself to say it aloud. The cost had never bothered Wirelight half as much as it bothered Sideswipe. 

Groundhog gives him another one of those long, assessing looks. “I'm going to recommend that you don't spark-share. Ever.” 

Sideswipe rolls his optics. “I already knew that.” He gusts a loud ventilation, fidgeting mercilessly now. “Medics have been shouting that at me since they released me from the center.”

_You're lucky to be online_ , they always said. _Must be the hand of Primus himself._

Wirelight never talked about why Sideswipe ended up in the med center in the first place, or why his spark ached occasionally or why the sense of something missing never seemed to go away. Medics kept saying it was a glitch, an aftersensation caused by the irregularity in his spark. They said it would go away after his first upframe. 

Except that it didn't, it hasn't, and Sideswipe still catches himself sometimes, prowling around, looking for something without knowing what it is. 

Groundhog makes a noise, assent or something similar. “Then you're not a complete idiot.” He taps the datapad again and tucks it under his arm. “Any other requests before I get started?” 

Sideswipe doesn't know whether to shout his relief or merely sag against the berth. At least Groundhog isn't bombarding him with questions Sideswipe can't answer. He already knows how strange his spark is. He's tired of hearing it from others. 

“No,” Sideswipe answers truthfully. 

“Good.” Groundhog untucks the datapad and sets it off to the side. “Now relax. I've done this before. By the time you online next, you'll be in a shiny, new frame.” 

And he won't be a first frame any longer. Primus, Sideswipe can hardly wait.

o0o0o

He loses at first.

A lot. 

Sideswipe remembers watching the official races on the vidcasts, wanting to attend a real race one orn. Wirelight had promised they'd go after his next upframe, in celebration of becoming a near-adult. 

Even then, Sideswipe had been eager for his own alt-mode, hungering to feel the kilometers melt away beneath him. He had craved speed, and flashy colors, and the roar of a crowd. 

Unofficial races, however, are perilously different than the famed racing circuits out in Crystal City. 

There are no rules or regulations or codes of conduct. In fact, the races better resemble gladiatorial combat, with racers crashing into each other, using dirty tricks and doing whatever it takes to win, including destroying the competition. 

At first, there is a lot of pain. Sideswipe spends most of his time after races in a crumpled, smoking heap of agony. He's dented and dinged and spilling energon every which way. But he's tenacious. He endures and survives. And most of all, he learns. 

Barricade teaches him very little. He seems to favor the approach of tossing Sideswipe into the smelter and seeing if he drags himself out, or turns to scorched slag. Whether Sideswipe succeeds or not, Barricade doesn't care either way. Though at the rate he's losing creds, he ought to care a little. The frequent backhands don't help matters. 

Motorhead gives him a few pointers, mostly in the wrecking and demolition of his fellow racers aspect. He also teaches Sideswipe a nice little trick about handling those confusing, abrupt turns. The track is never the same from one race to the next, so it's not like Sideswipe can get better by memorizing the twists and turns of it. 

Groundhog is content to test all the newest innovations in racing upgrades on Sideswipe's frame. And Rollerforce seems to think Sideswipe would make more than a decent Pitfighter, trying to cajole Sideswipe into leaving the circuits and entering the pits. 

Well, it can only help, Sideswipe reasons, so he lets Rollerforce knock him around, adding dents and scratches to an already battered frame. Groundhog refuses to fix his paint until he actually wins and then turns around and gives Rollerforce slag for adding to Sideswipe's mangled mess of a frame. This never ceases to amuse Sideswipe because although Groundhog's the smallest of them, there must be some universal trend to fear the medic. 

And so Sideswipe loses and practices and gets batted around and loses some more. He endures pain and ridicule and humiliation but keeps coming back because it's addicting, like a stimulant. He wants to win, craves victory, and he won't stop until he's tasted it. 

One orn, he actually makes it through the race without totaling out. He's scored the last position but surviving's still the name of the game.

They celebrate with copious amounts of high grade. Groundhog fixes him up with a snort and Motorhead tells him not to let the survival get to his helm. 

Sideswipe just grins and promises he's going to win. 

And he does. Or close enough to it. Next race, he scores fifth out of thirty. Granted, only ten mechs managed to cross the finish line, but it's not dead last. 

Next race, he hits fourth out of twenty. Then he ties for second. 

Sideswipe doesn't even care about the creds anymore. He wants to be the first, to win, and knock out the competition. He wants to be the fastest, the most vicious, he wants his designation to be on the lips of everyone in the stands. They're already talking about him but he wants more. 

He wants to win. 

The next race rolls around and Sideswipe can feel it, something electric in the air. This time, he's going to win, he's going to come in first.

He pushes his new frame to the limits, focuses only on the track, Groundhog's new impulse-system speeding his reaction time. He swerves to avoid a mine laid by one of the racers, sends one mech into a severe tailspin, and doesn't look back. 

The roar of the crowd is a pulse in his spark. The lines scatter across the track. Pitfalls and obstructions try to slow him down. Another racer nearly swipes him but Sideswipe twists out of the way. There's another racer riding his bumper, engine revving in attempt to catch up. 

But he's not going to because mere kliks later Sideswipe screams across the finish line, the black and white mech all but welded to his bumper. He can hear the cheering, thrumming in his audials, vibrating through his spark. 

Sideswipe bursts into root mode, his cooling fans desperately sucking in air, condensation slicking down his plating. His HUD is scrolling errors because he pushed himself too far, and he's cracked a gasket, but he won and that's all that matters. 

Groundhog's still going to ream him a new one. 

Sideswipe pumps both fists into the air. “Yes!” He does a dance full of glee, spark pumping an ecstatic beat. 

He's never going to lose again. Not now that he's on top. 

Behind him, a mech chuckles. “I'd say congratulations but I'm a slag-sore loser.” 

Sideswipe turns, seeing a mech with white paint and a blue visor, the one who had scored second place. “No prize for second place,” Sideswipe replies with a grin. “I learned that the hard way.”

The other mech grins, cocking his hip to the side. “I almost had ya. Nice little trick with the curve there. I might’ve beat ya otherwise.” 

“Not on your spark,” Sideswipe counters, and looks the mech up and down, finding that they are nearly of a height, though the other mech's design is slightly more stream-lined. “This your first time on Cade's track?” 

“My usual scene's over in Polyhex.” He makes a vague gesture in the direction of the nearby city-state. “But I was missin' a challenge. My sponsor's Fasttrack.”

Sideswipe knows Fasttrack by reputation alone. He and Barricade don't get on. In fact, Sideswipe would more or less say there's a lot of hatred and very little respect. That doesn't mean Sideswipe and this mech can't get along. 

He raises his helm. “You've got a challenge now.” 

“That I do.” This time, the mech's the one to give Sideswipe an assessing look, circling around Sideswipe in a low, careful prowl. “Lessee here. Good frame. Custom, I take it. No stock-base here, no sirree.” 

“Your point?” 

The mech circles around until he faces Sideswipe once more. “Just makin' an observation, mah mech. Throttle your engine...” 

“Sideswipe,” he offers with an easy grin. He races under Barricade's designation since he owns Sideswipe's contract. Eventually, Sideswipe's going to make his own designation the one on everyone's processor. 

The other racer flashes his visor. “I like it.” He lifts a servo, pointing an opposing digit toward his chassis. “ 'M Jazz. And I'm lookin' ta celebrate.” 

“You?” Sideswipe laughs, planting his servos on his hips. “I'm the one who won.” 

“I noticed.” Jazz's vocals dip into a soft purr as he steps closer, until the distal edges of their energy fields brush, zipping with interest. “Ya got somewhere to be or can I buy ya a round?” 

Sideswipe looks up to the main station where Barricade and the rest of his team watch the races. Barricade's probably collecting on his creds, expecting Sideswipe to show up at any moment. But Sideswipe's an adult now, isn't he? He doesn't need permission to go anywhere. 

Okay, sure, that gasket's causing him some mild discomfort. But it's not serious. He can wait a few joors to get it looked at, even if Groundhog fusses about it. 

He shifts his gaze back to Jazz. “It looks like my night has cleared up. So how about that drink?” 

“Sure your handler isn't gonna send his thugs after me later?” 

Sideswipe leans closer, his olfactory sensors picking up whiffs of heated metal, fine polish, and expended coolant. “You afraid?” 

A laugh bubbles out of Jazz's vocalizer. “Nah, I like mah mechs with a hint of danger.” 

“Then let's go. I know a way out that'll keep the mob off our back,” Sideswipe says. 

The mob being a horde of clamoring fans and the possessive sponsors that'll get to looking for both of them eventually. Sideswipe is going to pay for this later but, taking a long, measuring look at Jazz, it would be worth it. The mech is gorgeous from the tip of his pedes to the crest of his sensory horns and he seems to be interested. 

There's a bar nearby. Sideswipe only knows about it because Motorhead keeps dragging them there. He favors one of the servers, not that the mech is willing to give him an inch of interest. But the high grade's decent enough, for the price, and this is Sideswipe's first chance to indulge without Groundhog's gimlet optic holding him back. 

“How long you been racin'?” Jazz asks once the high grade starts to flow, settling warm and tingly in his tanks. 

They're sitting close together, hip to hip, thigh to thigh, if only to be heard above the clamor of a dozen inebriated mechs, and to be seen in the dim of a barely lit establishment. Way to save on costs there. 

“A couple of quartrex,” Sideswipe answers, toying with his third cube of the evening. It sloshes restlessly in the cube, a near-violent shade of scarlet and ocher. 

Jazz whistles, his energy field a sharp buzz against Sideswipe's. “Yer good for a newbie.” 

“It's my natural talent,” Sideswipe says with a smirk. He's got reason to be proud, he thinks. It takes vorns for most mechs to win a race. But when you got it, you got it. 

He sips at the high grade, which blooms a pleasant heat over his glossa, and goes down nice and smooth. He can feel it warming his tank, extra charge already zipping through his systems. He feels ready to take on the world, maybe race a few hundred more laps if he needs to. 

Jazz hums in appreciation, leaning closer, his arm touching Sideswipe's. “Oh, yeah? What other talents ya got?” 

Is that interest he detects in the racer's tone?

“You want to find out?” Sideswipe asks, slowly lowering his cube. 

Jazz's smirk grows, shifting his thigh plating against Sideswipe's in a slow, sensual rasp of metal on metal. “Ya could say I'm more than a little intrigued,” he purrs. 

Sideswipe's spark swells with heat. “I...” Words stall on his glossa. Easy enough to talk the talk, but having never walked the walk, he finds himself lacking. 

“Speechless now?” Jazz asks, lowering his cube to the counter, one finger dipping into the iridescent brew and stirring it around. 

Sideswipe forces a physical shake of himself. “Don't sound so proud of yourself,” he says, performing a systems check. He chugs down the last of the cube, slamming it to the counter before it can dissipate. He throws himself to his pedes, only to sway once he is upright. “Whoa.” 

“Careful,” Jazz says, joining him on the floor. “Yer no good to me unconscious.” He grabs Sideswipe's arm, steadying him, and Sideswipe tries very hard not to pay close attention to the tingles that radiate up his arm. “Primus, it's like you've never had high grade before.” 

Sideswipe's engine revs. “I have so.” 

Jazz's visor tilts toward him and though Sideswipe can't see his optics, he gets the impression Jazz is staring at him. 

Sideswipe ducks his helm. “Just not so much,” he amends. 'Cade lets him taste it but Groundhog always jerks it out of his servos before he can so much as finish a cube. 

Jazz's laughter seems to resonate through his chassis. “Sideswipe, my mech, you are one unique racer.” 

“Thanks. I think.” He sways and chooses to lean upon Jazz, their helms in close proximity, which Sideswipe takes as an invitation to nuzzle. Jazz doesn't seem to mind. “You mentioned other talents...?”

“Mmm. So I did.” Jazz's other servo slides around Sideswipe's frame and slips down, brushing over his aft. “Got somewhere private or do you do public shows?”

Embarrassment wars with arousal, both making his engine rev a deeper pitch. His interface systems – both of them – are pinging him with readiness, heat cascading in rapid bursts through his frame. Sideswipe shudders. 

He puts the idea of public shows on a high shelf for later consideration and grabs Jazz's servo, dragging the mech away from the bar. His shared apartment with Cade and his team is too far away, but it's full of busybody mechs who won't give him any privacy anyway. The dance floor is packed and dark, but far too public. Fortunately, the bar is full of shadowy places that many mechs take advantage of, and one such hallway around a corner is both dark and unoccupied. 

Jazz is, for once, silent, but he doesn't fight Sideswipe, doesn't resist or voice a protest. His digits squeeze Sideswipe's servo, his engine revving as though he's running hot and Sideswipe loves the sound of it. Jazz doesn't even squeak when they turn the dark corner and Sideswipe uses his grip to swing Jazz around, pinning the other racer against the wall. He presses himself against Jazz's chestplate, frames aligned, his servos planted against the wall to either side of Jazz's helm. 

Heat pulses between them, Sideswipe's optics locking on Jazz's visor as they share the same vented air. 

Anticipation coils within Sideswipe, like the eager skip of his spark before the race begins. There's a craving he needs satisfied and as servos land on his hip plating, sliding up and around to hook on his armor and drag him closer, Sideswipe is sure Jazz intends to be that satisfaction. 

“Hot already?” Jazz asks, his vocals husky and his energy field spilling hot and heavy between them. It pulses against Sideswipe's own, beckoning with tiny tendrils. “I'm flattered.” 

“You're a slagging tease is what you are,” Sideswipe retorts. He feels like Jazz has been teasing him all orn. 

He dips his helm and slants their mouths together, thirsty for his first kiss. And he is not disappointed. 

Fraaag. It's hot and wet, charge crackling between them with a snap-snap of live ions. Jazz's glossa touches his own, slick and sinuous. He tastes like high grade, all bubbly and sweet and smooth. Sideswipe moans, pelvis grinding against Jazz's, his interface arrays spitting demands at him. 

His servos scrape against the wall, his own energy field tessellating against Jazz's. Another moan spills free as their fields sync, sharing desire and lust between them, reflecting Sideswipe's desperation. 

Jazz's denta scrape against his lip and it's a mild sting that doesn't register as pain though it should. Sideswipe won't mind if he does it again, in fact, but then Jazz shifts to sucking lightly on his bottom lipplate and that's good, too. Even better when Jazz bucks up against him, his servos squeezing on Sideswipe's hip. 

Without his permission, Sideswipe's panels pop open, connectors spitting eager charge into the air. The sound of it clicking open seems all too loud, even with the music pounding mere meters away. 

Jazz purrs against his mouth. “Is that what you like, Red?” One servo drags down and cups Sideswipe's groin plating, pressing against the heated panel that protects his spike. “Cause I got one of these, too.” 

Sideswipe groans, hips bucking into Jazz's digits, his vents skipping a much needed cycle. “I don't... I want...” He stutters, unable to phrase the need burning in his circuits. He pushes his forehelm against Jazz's, pleasure dancing too thick and bright to articulate.

“Don't what? Know what you want?” 

Words stripped away, Sideswipe presses his entire frame against Jazz's, greedy for the feel of hot plating and buzzing energy fields. His spike is pressurized and throbbing behind the protective plate and it can't take much more for it to burst free. He remembers the frame-shuddering pleasure of self-stimulation and imagines it has to be better with another mech. Has to be. 

“I want anything,” he admits, unshuttering optics he hadn't realized he'd closed. “Just... frag... _touch me_.” 

“Was planning on it. But for now...” Jazz's digits dance over Sideswipe's frame before teasing at the sparking connectors. A flick of his digits and they snap shut. “I don't know ya and you don't know me so let's keep it simple, all right?” 

“Yeah,” Sideswipe agrees because frankly, he'll agree to anything if it means Jazz will keep touching him. “Whatever.” He drags his mouth to Jazz's, pressing their lips together, glossa snaking inside Jazz's mouth for another taste of sweetness. 

He can feel the charge snapping off his frame and knows it's made contact with Jazz's plating by the way Jazz sucks in a sharp ventilation. Digits scraping against the wall, Sideswipe lifts one servo away, wanting to touch as much as he's being touched. More specifically, he wants to touch Jazz, slide his digits over all that smooth, white plating. It's sleek, gaps in all the right places, where he can sneak his digits between, flicking over cables and circuitry beneath. Jazz surges up against him, obviously liking it, though Sideswipe is guessing at this point. 

And then servos, by Primus, there are servos all over Sideswipe's frame. They sweep over red metal, an assault to the senses, stroking and plucking and pinching and Sideswipe moans helplessly. Trembles twist through his frame, heat throbbing from helm to pede, his entire frame a thing of unconscious motion. Metal against metal is a delicious burr of friction, charge snapping bright and heavy. 

Jazz grabs his hips and grinds and what can only be described as a whimper escapes Sideswipe's vocalizer. He's beyond being embarrassed by it, too interested in exploring those tantalizing gaps at Jazz's hip. He can feel the charge from Jazz's own circuitry, licking against his digits. And then there's a touch, a bare caress over one of the sensory horns on his helm and Sideswipe loses it. 

He writhes, overload hitting him like a bolt of lightning, his frame slamming against Jazz's in a loud _skriiiitch_ of plating on plating. 

“Oh frag, that's hot,” he hears Jazz pant as though from a distance, and then digits curl around Sideswipe's servo, pulling it up and shoving it under the curve of Jazz's bumper. “Here. Touch me here.” 

Sideswipe obeys because how can he not? With his frame thrumming and his systems cycling and the taste of charge so thick in the air? 

His fingers scrape the underside and Jazz moans, wrapping a leg around Sideswipe's waist and grinding. His valve panel scrapes against Sideswipe's spike panel, heat and moisture building between the two arrays. Jazz's other hand falls against Sideswipe's faceplate, digits brushing over his lips until Sideswipe sucks them into his mouth, glossa lapping at the tips. 

His optics are open wide, watching as Jazz's visor flashes and his helm tosses back. He bucks up hard, the energy crackling and dancing over his frame in visible sparks. Until now, Sideswipe has not had reason to call a mech beautiful. 

Jazz slumps in his arms, sagging back against the wall, withdrawing his digits from Sideswipe's mouth, but not without a parting stroke to his bottom lip. “Now that,” he says with a rolling purr, “deserves a round two.” 

Sideswipe, however much his processor agrees, feels his frame slagging. “I could really use some recharge,” he says. 

There's a belated pause before Jazz bursts into laughter, loud, rich and honest amusement rather than the trickling bemusement he's been performing all night. “That's...” He shakes his helm, uncoiling his leg and standing of his own accord. “Not much for stamina, are ya?” 

Heat floods Sideswipe's faceplates and he crosses his arms. “I've been racing all day.” 

“So have I, Red” Jazz leans forward, tapping Sideswipe's chestplate. “Y'know, I'm going out on a ledge and guess you're not as experienced as you pretend to be.” 

Sideswipe fidgets. “Is it that obvious?” 

“Only a little.” Jazz holds up a servo, digits pinching together to prove his point. “So tell me the truth, Red. Gotta be four, five times max, right?” 

He vents, the embarrassment growing like a spore beneath his plating. “Once. As in just now.” 

“Your first?” Jazz splutters, actually splutters, losing all of his composure. “I wouldn't have guessed that. Like ever.” 

He rolls his shoulders, looking everywhere but at Jazz. “I've picked up a few pointers here or there.” Pointers he got from watching Drift when the buymech didn't know he was looking, not that Sideswipe is going to admit that aloud. 

“Primus, Red.” Jazz rubs his faceplate, half his visor lit. “Wish I'd know that from the start. I would at least've picked better surroundings.” 

Sideswipe grins, some of the mortification peeling away. “I hardly need wooing.” 

Jazz tilts his helm. “Well, you might have a point there, but still...” He steps closer, right into Sideswipe's retracted energy field, their plating near-touching. “No wooing so no cuddlin' either, I take it?” he asks, fingers tap-tapping their way across Sideswipe's plating. 

“Nope,” he says, though the fatigue is fading, systems perking with each resonating tap of Jazz's digit. “But a repeat's not out of the question.” 

Jazz's lipplates widen into a smirk. “Guess we'll see, won't we?” He flicks his digit one last time and draws back, looking far less flustered than Sideswipe feels. “After the next race?” 

Excitement and anticipation flutter through Sideswipe's energy field. “Definitely.”

o0o0o

It's a small berth but Sideswipe doesn't mind. And apparently, neither does Jazz because he capitalizes on the tiny size by pressing up close against Sideswipe, his half-pressurized spike nudging against the damp edges of Sideswipe's valve. He's lubricant and transfluid-slick still, from their earlier activities, and the tiny circles of Jazz's hips swirls the tip of his spike through the fluids.

Jazz curls against his backplate, servo petting in slow strokes that occasionally take him on a teasing glance over Sideswipe's spike. Sooner or later, they'll graduate to another round of interfacing, but Sideswipe kind of likes this, too. When the pleasure just unspools within him in slow, steady waves. There's no urgency, only a floating swim toward ecstasy. 

“Lots of whispers goin' around,” Jazz murmurs, conversation between them a steady murmur of casual observation as always. “Lotta mechs ain't happy.” 

Sideswipe offlines his optics, enjoying sensation. “Tell me something I don't know.” His pelvis tips, changing the angle, and Jazz's spike hits the rim of his valve. “Nobody's happy anymore.” 

“Somethin's gonna give.” Jazz's digitip circles the head of Sideswipe's spike, teasing the drips of transfluid. “It ain't gonna be pretty. All of Cybertron's sinking fast.” 

“You think?” 

“Mmm.” Jazz leans in, helm nuzzling against Sideswipe's, his vents a warm puff against the back of Sideswipe's neck. “Tell that sponsor 'o yours to watch himself. The Enforcers are cracking down.” 

Sideswipe shivers from helm to pede, free servo kneading on the berth. “Cade knows what he's doing.” 

“I'm not arguing about that. Just a friendly warning.” His lips press against Sideswipe's helm and then slide down, flicking against his audial. “Red?” 

Sideswipe licks his lipplates. “You want to talk or you want to face?” he asks, the heat pooling in his interface demanding attention. He can feel the slickness of lubricant on his thighs, pooling on the berth-cover beneath them. 

The head of Jazz's spike nudges his valve and then they both shudder as Jazz sheathes himself in one long, slow push. Every sensor bursts to life, warmth flooding Sideswipe's innards. Fraaaag. 

“Both,” Jazz replies, nibbling on Sideswipe's neck cables with soft scrapes of his denta. “Got some bad news, Red.” 

Sideswipe's valve calipers flutter around Jazz's spike. “Bad news?” he repeats, only half-listening. He much prefers the pleasure building within him. 

“Gotta head back to Polyhex tomorrow,” Jazz replies, hips sliding back in a slow drag before he sinks himself again, digitips tracing circles around the tip of Sideswipe's spike. “Fasttrack's got me a whole series of races set up. Rumor has it one of the star racers from the big scene is looking to slum it.” 

The disappointment that sweeps through Sideswipe is both unexpected and not surprising. “Aww. And just when I was starting to like you.” 

Jazz chuckles. “Ya can always come visit. If your boss lets you off that leash anyway.” His digits curl around Sideswipe's spike as it fully emerges, spreading pre-transfluid over the red and black banded spike. 

“He don't own me,” Sideswipe says with a shudder, hips surging toward Jazz's servo, the heat building inside of him in a steady push. 

“Heh. Keep tellin' yourself that.” Jazz leans in, lips brushing over Sideswipe's audial, his hips rising and pushing deeper and deeper into Sideswipe's valve. 

Sideswipe moans, sinking into the consuming heat, servos clutching at the berth. Letting Jazz at his interface is one of the best decisions he ever made. Primus, the mech is good. 

“I'm gonna beat ya on your own track,” Sideswipe says, a gasp stuttering from his vents as Jazz snaps his hips hard. 

Jazz chuckles, glossa flicking over Sideswipe's audial. “We'll see,” he says, and his servo squeezes Sideswipe's spike, making him gasp. 

After that, they don't talk anymore.

o0o0o

Jazz had been right.

Sideswipe stares, the sound of shouting and blasterfire and the rumble of explosions piercing his audials. Mechs are running everywhere, an undulating mob of terror and fury. The air is scorched with plasmafire and ashy smoke. 

They killed Rollerforce with a single shot to the chassis, straight through the spark.

Sideswipe hasn't seen Groundhog. He suspects the medic made use of his smaller size to slip out with the rest of the fleeing crowds. The Enforcers had their servos full trying to contain the other racers and their sponsors. 

Motorhead goes down, frame arching and spitting sparks, a fierce growl echoing from his vocalizer. He is online when they snap the stasis-cuffs around his wrists and he goes limp, optics dark. 

Barricade is shouting, surrounded by Enforcers that are furious, eager to repay in kind the spark Barricade has already taken. The empire he's built in Perihex underground has become such rubble and he will fight to the last of his spark for that insult. 

“Come on!” Lightspeed shouts, one of the other racers, tugging on Sideswipe's arm, trying to stir him into motion. “There's nothing you can do for them!” 

Loyalty is what has kept his pedes rooted in place. Barricade's done a lot for him, helped save him from an existence too much like Drift's, hiding in an alley for whatever mech with credits to spend on a well-used frame. 

Barricade's helm swings his direction, for the briefest of moments. If he sends a transmission, Sideswipe can't tell. Not with all the chatter in the air, their private line drizzling with static and silence.

“Sideswipe!” 

He startles, turning, Lightspeed's shout ringing in his audials.

“We have to go!” 

His spark is a pained throb in his chassis. Lightspeed is right. 

Barricade goes down, buried beneath the onslaught of three Enforcers, his snarls of rage echoing even over the din and clatter. 

Sideswipe whirls on a pede and flees. Once again, there's nothing he can do. He's helpless, only able to watch as everything he knows turns to ash and pain around him.

o0o0o

He heads to Polyhex because it's a short drive away and they aren't checking for travel passes at the gates. And, maybe, because Jazz is supposed to be here and Sideswipe doesn't know anyone else.

He entertains thoughts of tracking down Drift, but the buymech had made such effort to get Sideswipe off the streets that it feels a bit like failing him. Or something. Besides, Jazz is a racer and maybe he can hook Sideswipe up with another sponsor. Right now, racing's all he's good at. And if he's lucky, Fasttrack won't even know him for one of Barricade's racers. Sideswipe's already scrubbed off the sigil from his chestplate. 

It takes a little digging to find the underground circuits. He wanders into the darkest, seediest section of Polyhex he can find and starts asking around. Carefully. Buymechs are safer, less likely to attack, and Sideswipe has his sensors on high alert. Once, there was a group of mechs following him with a gleam in their optics that he didn't like. He ducked into an alley, hid behind a pile of trash, and vented relief when they passed him by. 

It takes a handful of orns before he finds someone willing to whisper the coordinates of Polyhex's undercircuits. And that little piece of information nearly wipes all of the ready creds that Sideswipe has in his subspace. 

Here in Polyhex where everything is bigger and brighter, the undercircuits are no exception. There are at least three tracks surrounded by real stands. If it weren't for the racer's mark stamped on his shoulder, opposite the trader's mark he's kept for sentimental reasons, Sideswipe probably wouldn't have managed to score a meeting with Jazz's sponsor. But one look at the mark and he's all but rushed to Fasttrack's office, pushed inside, with the door keyed shut behind him. 

Creepy. 

“You Fasttrack?” he asks. 

“S'what they call me,” the mech behind the desk grunts. He's a tiny thing, smaller than Sideswipe, barely bigger than a mini. “Can I help you?” He doesn't so much as look up from the datapads strewn over his desk. 

Sideswipe's gaze flickers around the room, taking in the disorganized mess that Fasttrack calls an office. “I'm looking for Jazz. He said you were his sponsor.” 

“Jazz?” The mech huffs an amused vent. “Haven't seen him in a vorn.” One servo lifts, flicking through the air. “Fragger skipped out on me. Left me with dregs. I haven't had a winner since.” The same servo sweeps over his helm and Sideswipe winces at the streak of grease left behind. 

Gross. 

But also, frag. What's he supposed to do now?

“He said he was coming back here two quartrex ago,” Sideswipe says, optics shifting back to Lightspeed. 

The sponsor barks a laugh. “Jazz says a lot of things. Don't make any of it true.” He pauses, stylus tapping a datapad before he finally looks up. “You a racer, too?” 

Sideswipe looks to his left shoulder, where the mark is clearly visible. “Was.” Might continue to be, if it's all the option he has left. 

“Explains it then.” Fasttrack leans back, stylus still tapping an annoying rhythm. “You're just his type. Flashy. Pretty. Fast.” Another grating chuckle rumbles in the mech's chassis before he shakes his helm. “Don't feel too bad. You ain't the first.” 

He shouldn't feel so disappointed, but he is. It isn't like they made any promises or commitments, but it had been nice. 

“Dumbaft,” Sideswipe mutters, shoulders sinking. 

“What?” 

He shakes his helm. “Not you.” More like himself. Should've let Motorhead berth him. At least he would have known what to expect. 

“Mmm.” Fasttrack tilts his helm, giving Sideswipe a long look from helm to pede. “You got a good construction going on there. You still lookin' to race?” 

“Why?” 

Fasttrack pushes back his chair and stands, circling around the desk. “Like your color and your style.” He approaches Sideswipe, optics click-clicking as though he's magnifying his vision. “Could use a mech like you.” 

_Fire and shouting and screaming and energon splattered all over the floor. The Enforcers have no reason to give mercy and don't bother, destroying all who oppose and subduing the rest. Not even customers are exempt._

_Rollerforce is dead, and probably Motorhead, too._

_Barricade's looking at him and there's nothing Sideswipe can do._

Sideswipe performs a systems check. “What about Enforcers?” 

“What about 'em?” Fasttrack laughs, throws his helm back and everything, backpedaling to prop his hip against his desk. “Half-bit, I got more Enforcers on my payroll than the Primacy.” 

Oh. Well, no wonder he's not worried about it. 

“... Can I think about it?” 

Fasttrack waves a servo dismissively. “Sure. Don't think too long. Or the offer might go away. Now I got work to do. If you ain't racing, you ain't worth my time.” 

It's a dismissal so Sideswipe's doesn't linger. What he wants isn't here anyway. No point in sticking around if he isn't going to be Fasttrack's mech. At least, not at first. 

He doesn't have many options, does he? 

His creds are going to run out soon. His access to his other accounts has been suspended. He'd pulled as much as he could, but the Enforcers must have gotten to them right before their raid. Sideswipe's own accounts were untouched, but the one he shared with Barricade's team was wiped clean. And he didn't have much to call his own. Hadn't needed much before. Cade paid for everything. 

Back in the streets, Sideswipe is surrounded by the glitz and glamor of Polyhex. The city is so different from Perihex. It's bigger and brighter, easy to get lost in. Easy to be forgotten. 

He feels small, out of place in his third-frame, vorns too early and still uncomfortable, despite how long he's had to get used to it. 

Why does it always feel like he's clawing his way toward a right to function? A flicker of constancy and bam, his world is swept out from beneath him. 

Is it too much to ask for a little stabili-- oof!

Sideswipe staggers back, rubbing at his nasal structure. “Sorry,” he mutters, embarrassed that he'd been so lost in his thoughts he'd actually collided with a stranger. “I wasn't paying--”

“I can see that,” someone snarls as a servo snatches Sideswipe up by the neck, lifting him clear off the ground with little visible effort. “Piece of gutterscrap,” he adds, giving Sideswipe a shake. 

Sideswipe gasps, clutching at the massive arm. “Whoa, mech. It was an accident.” His optics swivel in and out of focus, seeing a blurry, hulking form that had to be a military build. They don't make civilians this huge. 

“Put the civvy down, Brawl,” another mech drawls in a bored tone. “You might catch something.” 

Brawl, apparently, grunts and his digits loosen. Sideswipe yelps, scrabbling for purchase, as he is unceremoniously dropped. His aft hits the street hard and something must have dented. Great. It'll match the scrape on his chassis after colliding with Brawl in the first place. 

“Ow,” he mutters, glaring balefully up at the... tank? Yes, those are definitely cannons and treads. This one's a tank. 

“I don't know,” says a third voice from Sideswipe's left. “I think he's kind of cute.” The mech wanders into Sideswipe's peripheral vision, quivering blades identifying a rotary. Another military build. Great. “Can we keep him?” 

Sideswipe's optics cycle wide, gaze darting between the three large mechs. These are exactly the types he tries to stay away from, the types Drift always warned him about. They don't take no for an answer and he'll be lucky if he even gets paid. 

“You remember what happened with your last pet,” the third mech says, still in that same, bland tone. He's the largest of them, mouth and optics concealed by a mask and visor. 

Sideswipe's not about to be anyone's pet. He scrambles backward, ignoring the ache in his aft, and promptly collides with a pair of legs. He tilts his helm back, unsurprised to find the rotary had slipped behind him. 

“I'll take better care of him this time,” the rotary claims in a wheedling tone, one servo reaching down for Sideswipe. 

He throws himself out of reach, searching for escape or maybe a little help, but like Perihex, no one in this city gives a frag. He's just a guttermech, after all. No one important. 

“Leave him,” the big one says. “We have work to do.” He turns, striding away. “Let's go.” 

“Too bad, Tex,” Brawl says and trots after the largest mech, obviously their leader in some capacity. “Maybe another time.” 

The rotary, however, lingers. He circles around Sideswipe with a slow, steady pace. His visor has a gleam that Sideswipe recognizes. Any other time and he might have been flattered. 

“You really are cute.” The rotary taps his mouthplate, blades twitching where they are visible over his shoulders. “Bet you make pretty noises, too.” 

“Vortex!”

The rotary's rotors clip together in a tight line. “Yeah, yeah,” he mutters and turns away from Sideswipe. “I'm coming!” He hollers and breaks into a jog to catch up to his associates. 

It's a long, long breem before Sideswipe manages to get back to his pedes, dusting himself off and pretending like nothing had happened. It's a hard battle and he's pretty sure he comes out in a stalemate. 

Polyhex is a big, big city and maybe, Sideswipe just isn't ready. Fasttrack's offer suddenly sounds a lot more appealing. Racing's profitable at least. And it's a lot better than living on the streets.

o0o0o

Fasttrack's terms are slag compared to Barricade's but Sideswipe has a berth to sleep in, enough energon to keep him more than fueled, and enough victories to satisfy his ego. What's left of it anyway.

The races in Polyhex are harder, more brutal. Sideswipe is grateful for all the mods Groundhog designed for him, along with the durable, but light plating. Otherwise, he'd be nothing but scrap here in the “big leagues.” 

It makes him wonder what Jazz was really after, to be honest. None of the racers in Perihex could have been a challenge compared to this. 

Above it all, though, Sideswipe likes this the best, the celebration afterward where fans and racers and sponsors alike crowd into the Circuit and drink their woes and winnings away. Sideswipe loves to dance almost as much as he loves to race. The feel of the bass throbbing through him, the strobing lights, the burn of the high grade through his lines... it chases it all away. 

What exactly it is Sideswipe's trying to escape, he's not sure. 

He's used to feeling the optics watching him. He's used to knowing that mechs are staring, eying his movements. 

But the prickle between his shoulderblades is new. It's more than just admiration, it's intent. 

Sideswipe turns, catching the optics of a mech halfway across the dance floor. He's not a racer, but Sideswipe can see the trader's mark stamped on his chestplate. More obvious are the sensory panels jutting visibly behind the mech's shoulders – a Praxian. Though what one is doing here in Perihex is a curiosity.

Not unsurprisingly, the Praxian trader begins to head Sideswipe's direction, easily threading through the crowd. 

“Stunned by my good looks?” he asks, vocals a soft husk that travel straight to Sideswipe's audials. 

Sideswipe chuckles, angling his frame in invitation. “Just wondering what a Praxian...” He pauses, optics noticing something else on the mech's frame, a shadow of an emblem. “... and former Enforcer, apparently, is doing here of all places.” 

“We all have our vices. Want some?” The mech offers him both a winning smile and one of the cubes of sparkling high grade in his servo. 

“Depends. Is it tainted?” 

The Praxian laughs, stepping closer. “Now why would I do a thing like that?” 

Sideswipe tilts his helm. “Wouldn't be the first time.” He has to admit, the glowing cube of blue looks mighty tasty. 

“I don't need false pretenses,” the mech says. “You want me all on your own.” 

“Confident.” 

“I can be.” He offers the cube again and this time, Sideswipe takes it, but doesn't take a sip. Not until his scanner finishes its analysis. “My designation's Smokescreen. And I already know who you are.” 

There's a beep. It's clean. Well, clean enough. There's enough additives in here to make even Sideswipe's high-performance engine race. 

He raises the cube to his lips, olfactory sensors taking in the sour-sweet burn before he sips at it. Delicious. He lifts his gaze to Smokescreen. “So you want a taste of the champion?” 

“Something like that.” Smokescreen nods toward the bar with his helm, drawing Sideswipe out of the crowd and toward the quieter, less crazy bar. “Got a business proposition for you.” 

“And here I was hoping for the pleasure.” Sideswipe turns toward the bar, Smokescreen following him. 

“That's still an option.” Smokescreen tone ripples with insinuation. “We could go somewhere more private to chat.” 

Sideswipe picks the far corner, tossing back half the high grade. “Here's fine.” 

“Don't trust me?” 

“Not for one klik.” He leans against the counter, briefly catching optics with the bartender, who happens to be on Fasttrack's payroll. If the energon's tainted or not, Sideswipe's got back up. “What have you got for me?” 

Smokescreen makes himself comfortable, leaning beside Sideswipe, sensory panels helping conceal them from the crowd. “A chance,” he says with a rakish grin. “To get out of this dump and earn some real creds. To make a name for yourself that no mech will ever forget.” 

“What makes you think I want that?” 

“Oh, you want it.” Smokescreen's vocals turn into a soft purr. “And if you join my team, you can have it.” 

Sideswipe toys with his cube, already feeling the burn of the grade in his tanks. “Your team?” 

“Well, I'm not the leader but my boss is interested. In fact, you've met him before.” 

This does not make him feel any better. Nor can he think of a single mech. Barricade's either a heap of scrap in some junkyard, or a prisoner in some dark cell. Sideswipe doesn't know anyone else. 

“Vortex is looking forward to seeing you again,” Smokescreen adds with a rolling laugh. “He's still wondering what kind of sounds you make.” 

Sideswipe startles. “You're slagging me,” he says. 

“Imagine our surprise when one of our favorite contacts had a sparkling,” Smokescreen continues, one arm making a vague gesture. “And that sparkling, apparently, is you.” 

“You mean Wirelight.” 

“Nice coincidence, huh?” 

“Suspicious coincidence.” Sideswipe tosses back the last of the cube, crushing it before it can dissipate. He likes the sound destruction makes. “You're recruiting me because of Wirelight. For what?”

Smokescreen is there, offering another cube. “Truth is, Onslaught wants to see what you've got in the ring. But me and Swin think you'd be better off with us.” 

“Swin?” 

“My business partner.” 

He probably shouldn't, but Sideswipe takes the cube. They're delicious and he's never one to turn down good, free high grade. “What kind of business?” 

“All kinds.” Smokescreen offers him a lazy grin, sensory panels flicking with equal indolence. “Interested?” 

“Skeptical,” Sideswipe counters, wafting the cube under his olfactory sensor before he takes a large gulp of it. Frag, but that's good stuff. “I don't see what's in it for me.” 

Smokescreen leans closer, his optics big and bright and possibly a bit overcharged. “We can get it back,” he says. 

“Get what back?” Sideswipe looks down, peering into his cube. He feels like he's lost the thread of the conversation somehow. 

“Everything they took from you. Wirelight's shop. Your creds. Your home.” 

Sideswipe cycles his optics, gaze jerking up toward Smokescreen. “What? Why? Why would you care?”

Smokescreen grins. “There's a certain... community amongst us fellow tradesmechs. And Wirelight was a friend of ours.” 

Something still isn't sitting right. 

Sideswipe tries to concentrate through the fog of the high grade. Wirelight never mentioned a Swindle or a Smokescreen or any contacts that Sideswipe should know. But then, he had been pretty secretive toward the end there. 

“That's not it at all,” Sideswipe says, processor slowly connecting threads and coming to a not unsurprising conclusion. “You need Wirelight to set up a deal, don't you? Well, too fragging bad, because Wirelight's dead and I'm all that's left.” 

Smokescreen throws his helm back and laughs. “I told Swin you weren't just some juiced-up racer. You actually have a processor in there.” 

Sideswipe scowls, clutching his energon cube. “If you just wanted to insult me, we could have skipped all the other fun.” He turns on a heelstrut, stalking away. 

Smokescreen's servo on his shoulder stops him before he gets too far, making him stumble. Apparently, the high grade is more potent than he thought. 

“Hey,” Smokescreen says in a soothing, apologetic tone. “I didn't mean to offend. I'm serious about you teaming up with us. Racing's not going to do it for you forever.” 

Sideswipe doesn't turn back around, but he does pause. Smokescreen's right. Racing's fun and all but Sideswipe's already getting bored of it. He wants to be doing something more. And he does itch to get back to his original functioning. There's a niggling part of him that believes he's a failure to Wirelight. 

“What's the deal?” Sideswipe asks, words heavy with a rightfully earned suspicion. 

“It's simple. You transfer your contract to us and you only race for us. We take you out of these go-cart trials and put you on a real track.”

Sideswipe shifts his weight, optics tracing Smokescreen's faceplate, looking for the hint of a lie like Wirelight had taught him. “And then?” 

“You explore your options.” Smokescreen grins and his hand drops from Sideswipe's shoulder as he steps closer. “You ever thought about pit-fighting?” 

The thought had never crossed his processor. Sideswipe's seen vids of the Senate-sanctioned fights in Iacon and the brutality of it had never piqued his interest. He knows that there's an undermarket for gladiator fights, just as there is for racing, but he's never been to one or even considered doing so, despite all of Rollerforce's urging. 

“No.” He gestures to his own frame. “I'm not built for it.” 

“That can be fixed. Ons thinks you're a good investment. He'll put up the funds,” Smokescreen says and his sensory panels drift downward, relaxing into the conversation. “Of course, you have other attributes that could be of use, too. So what do you say? Want to get out of this dump and actually do something?” 

It's tempting. Really tempting. 

Racing's good and all, but his contract with Fasttrack is made of slag. Sideswipe's surviving, but that's the short of it. He won't ever be able to climb out of this hole on what Fasttrack's giving him. A dirty apartment, enough energon to keep him functional, and repairs when the situation calls for it. 

This is hardly the functioning Sideswipe would have picked for himself. It seems like Smokescreen and his team might have something better to offer. At the very least, it'll get him out from under Fasttrack's rule. 

“All right,” Sideswipe says, and he chugs down the last of the high grade, which hits his tanks in sweet, savory bursts. If more of this is to come, then maybe Smokescreen's offer is worth it. “What're your terms?” 

Smokescreen grins.

o0o0o

He meets Swindle first, the fast-talking tradesmech nothing like Wirelight had been. Swindle's a greedy little aft, but he's smart and tricky. He knows all the best ways to make a deal the most profitable and he loves to brag about it.

Mostly, Sideswipe learns, Smokescreen and Swindle operate on their own. It's only when Swindle needs some brawn that they work with the others. Or Onslaught contacts Swindle when he's in need of something and knows the tradesmech can acquire it. Swindle's also their contact for mercenary jobs. 

It's very different from working with Barricade and his gang. Barricade's team had been a raucous, disorganized group that more or less treated each other like a dysfunctional family. Swindle and Smokescreen make a good team, but it's pretty clear that he only works with Onslaught for business reasons and not for any real element of cohesiveness. 

“It was me,” Swindle explains as he pores over several datapads, sitting crouched in front of a communication panel. “I'm the one that picked you out.” 

“Why?” Sideswipe asks, hip braced against the console. He crosses his arms over his chassis, confused to his core. 

Smokescreen, meanwhile, just smirks as he watches them. 

“Because you looked malleable,” Swindle says with a leer. He shutters one optic in a wink. “And profitable.” 

Is that supposed to be a compliment?

Sideswipe's engine hums. “So you're just going to use me and throw me away when you're done?” 

“Not ideally.” Swindle chuckles, digits tap-tapping over the comm panel as he types up a communication. “You've got skills. I can give you more. If you want them.” 

Sideswipe never completed his training with Wirelight. If Swindle can give him the final lessons he needs to apply for a genuine trader's license and pass, then maybe Sideswipe can stop scraping by and actually support himself, without having to rely on another mech owning him. 

“I want them,” Sideswipe says, though he remains cautious. He doesn't want to trust Swindle just yet. One of the things he learned rather quickly is to always have an escape route. “I want to buy my own contract.” 

The tradesmech gives him a sidelong look, his lipplates tilting into an easy grin. “Good for you. That's the ticket, Sides. Have high goals for yourself!” Swindle's hands flick through the air in vague celebration. One snaps out, snagging a datapad, before he turns in his chair and presents it to Sideswipe. “That being said, look this over and tell me what you think.” 

“What is it?” 

“Terms and conditions,” Swindle answers as he takes it, never losing that bright grin. “For a certain, ahem, exchange that we have arriving. It's the nature of the business, my new friend. There's always a data trail even when you are on the other side of the, eh, law. Smokey, why don't you give our novice here a helping servo.” 

“Sure thing, boss,” Smokescreen drawls. 

Swindle rolls his optics. “I'm never going to break you of that habit, am I?” 

Sideswipe ignores them, cutting on the datapad and scanning the parameters of the upcoming trade. The contract is exceedingly detailed, going so far as to delineate the delivery routes and delivery mechs as well. 

Sideswipe frowns, fingers tapping between two clauses of the contract. “This delivery path is a waste of time,” he says, loud enough to be heard over their friendly bickering. “Why not go through Crystal City? Cut out the middle mech?” 

“We don't do business in Crystal City anymore,” Smokescreen says, and his optics jitter toward Swindle, who nods his helm in agreement. 

“Why not?” Sideswipe asks. 

Swindle rolls his shoulders, his energy field bursting with annoyance. “Onslaught, in a wonderful display of unprofessional business sense, turned in one of our clients. Without consulting me, I might add. We're blacklisted now. Won't anyone in Crystal City, on our side of the law, do business with us anymore.” 

“He... what?” 

A pair of yellow servos throw themselves into the air, frustration heavy in Swindle's tone. “He should have just turned the job down flat if he loathed it that much but no, he's a greedy mech with a conscience.”

“From what I hear, you didn't realize what the package would be until it was too late,” Smokescreen says, sensory panels flattening against his back. Distaste fills his tone. “Even criminals have to have a moral compass.” 

“I have a moral compass,” Swindle argues. “And it points to the highest amount of creds a job supplies! And now, my reputation in Crystal City is ruined. A third of my best contacts won't do business with me anymore. So I'm stuck here, scrabbling in the gutters. Tch.” A burst of disgruntled ventilation escapes his vents. 

Sideswipe arches an orbital ridge, glancing around them. If Swindle thinks this is the gutters, he's never been to Perihex. This place is practically a palace compared to the one-room closet he split with Drift. Or the garbage-clogged alley where Drift did a lot of business. 

“What was the package?” Sideswipe asks. 

“A Towers mech,” Swindle bites out, hunching over his datapads again. “Who the frag cares what happens to them? Ons is a dumb-aft.” 

“A Towers youngling,” Smokescreen corrects and he gives Sideswipe a long look. “And my understanding is, it wasn't a classic ransom case either.” 

“Corruption's everywhere. In the gutters. In the Towers. Every mech's got a price,” Swindle mutters, but Sideswipe's unsure if it is meant to be an addition to their conversation. 

Smokescreen scoots across the bench, lowering his tone. “Ransom would have been tolerable,” he says, setting his datapad down and pushing it in Sideswipe's direction. “Means the package eventually gets to go home. But that's not what our contact wanted.”

“A slave?” Sideswipe guesses. 

“Slavery probably would have been preferable. Tolerable even,” Swindle mutters and rises to his pedes, gathering up his datapads. “Primus, I need a drink. I'm getting depressed all over again.” 

Sideswipe watches him go, his tanks unsettled. He's starting to get the picture and it's not a pleasant one. 

Smokescreen slides into a chair next to him, digits wiggling in request for the datapad. “Let me have a look,” he says. “Maybe we have other options.” 

Classic subject change if Sideswipe ever heard one. Which is fine by him. He's done with this topic, too.

o0o0o

“You going to tell me about this?” Sideswipe asks, leaning across the table to flick his fingers against the spot on Smokescreen's chestplate where an Enforcer's brand had once sat in prominence. “Or is it need to know?”

Smokescreen leans back, his lazy grin flattening on the edges. “It's a boring story,” he says, and signals one of the server-mechs wandering around the quiet bar. “One I can't tell without a round of good grade. You're buying.” 

“What?” 

“You want a story, you supply the burn,” Smokescreen insists. 

Sideswipe grins and whips out a handful of creds. They've got time to spare before their contact shows up and he's curious. “Fine.” 

Smokey laughs and, of course, orders the premium high grade. “You are a terrible negotiator. You could have at least given me restrictions.” He shakes his helm. “We'll have to work on that.” 

Rolling his optics, Sideswipe gestures toward his business partner. “Enough stalling. Spill the bolts.” 

“Right.” Smokescreen drums his fingers on the table, sensory panels twitching in such a way that betray his disquiet, despite his expression. “So my caretakers were Enforcers. High-ranked ones, too. One of them actually worked for the Prime's personal guard.” 

Sideswipe arches an orbital ridge. “So they were Elite.” 

“Yes. Kalis Elite.” 

That's pretty high ranked. Sideswipe's surprised that Smokescreen is here, now, rather than living the lap of luxury in Iacon. Or Kalis. Or wherever it was he was brought up by his caretakers. 

“So, following in their example, I became an Enforcer, too. It seemed like a good idea at the time.” Smokescreen rolls his shoulders in a shrug. “I studied tactics, diversionary tactics. And psychology, too. I wanted to learn how to read mechs. Their behaviors, their expressions, their energy fields.” 

The high grade arrives and Smokescreen falls silent. Several cubes are slid across the table, gleaming an iridescent purple-green. Bubbles rise from the bottom to the top and Sideswipe wonders if it's even safe to drink. 

Smokescreen, however, snags one and drains half of it in less than a nanosecond. Safe enough apparently. 

“It turns out,” Smokescreen continues, glossa flicking over his lipplates, “those same lessons became useful in other endeavors.” 

“Other endeavors?” Sideswipe sniffs the high grade experimentally. It's bitter, probably treated with iron. He gives it a testing sip and his optics fill with lubricant. 

Smokescreen tosses back the rest of the cube. “I had an... interest. I liked challenges. Risk. And I liked creds.” 

“Gambling,” Sideswipe guesses. There was a lot of it at the races, from betting on the winners to arranged games of chance and probability. 

“Gambling,” Smokescreen confirms and reaches for another cube, an ex-vent escaping him in a loud whoosh. “But that's frowned upon in the Enforcers. Especially when you build up a heavy debt that puts you on the wrong side of the law.” 

Sideswipe toys with his cube but doesn't drink anymore. It's a heavy burn in his tanks that he doesn't enjoy. “They dismissed you?” 

“Dishonorable discharge,” Smokescreen admits with the sort of half-drunken flair that the truly aggrieved have. “That, of course, didn't go over well with my caretakers. And then I made a bet with the wrong dealer, got in over my helm, and lost the rights to my own Primus-be-damned frame.” 

Sideswipe startles, nearly spilling his cube, jaw dropping in surprise. “Wait a klik. You mean...?”

“Backdraft was not a pleasant mech to have own my frame,” Smokescreen says and shifts, leaning forward, sensory panels flicking out behind him. “I was actually relieved when Swindle bought my debt contract.” He braces his elbows on the table, looking both embarrassed and disgusted with himself. 

Sideswipe works his mandibular hinge. He never would have guessed this. Smokescreen seems so confident and assured. “So you have no choice but to work with Swindle?”

The former Enforcer waves a dismissing servo. “I paid off my contract to Swindle vorns ago. I stick with him because I earn a profit, I get to indulge in my bad habits, and I honestly don't have anything else to do.” A small laugh bubbles up from his vocalizer but not even Sideswipe misses the bitter edge to it. “At least my training comes to some use. Too bad I wasn’t there for the Crystal City Deal. I could have spotted that monster before Ons ever signed that contract.” 

From Kalisian Elite to underground tradesmech. It's a fair distance to fall. Sideswipe's impressed with Smokescreen's tenacity. He keeps going no matter how much Cybertron keeps knocking him down, though admittedly, some of the fault is his own. 

“What about your caretakers?” Sideswipe asks, taking another small sip of his high grade. It's his creds so he better not let it go to waste. “Have you talked to them since?” 

“No.” Smokescreen shifts to a grimace before something in his gaze turns fond. “I have a younger brother. Turns out he's much more qualified to be an heir than I ever was.” 

He doesn't sound bitter, at least. 

Sideswipe's never had a sibling. The closest he’s ever had was the pseudo-family he had with Barricade's gang. Motorhead often treated him like a younger brother.

“He's a cute youngling,” Smokescreen continues, and lets out a small laugh. “Bitlet sends me a message every half-quartrex or so. He likes to babble on and on about nothing.”

“Must be nice,” Sideswipe muses, leaning against the table. He checks his chronometer and frowns. “Where the frag is Devcon? He should have been here two breems ago!”

Smokescreen reaches for the last cube, only hesitating long enough for Sideswipe to gesture that he doesn't want it. “He's always late.” A pede nudges Sideswipe beneath the table. “So what about you? What's your sordid past?” 

Sideswipe shoots him a sour look. “You already know about Wirelight. What more do you want to know?” 

“We've got time to waste.” Smokescreen leans back, throwing one arm over the back of the chair next to him, the perfect picture of relaxation. Must be because he's no longer the focus of their chat. “And I'm curious. Where'd you go after Wirelight offlined?” 

“The same place all the other half-bits go when no one cares about them.” Sideswipe really doesn't want to talk about this. He hunches over his energon. “On the streets. And that's all I'm going to tell you.” 

Both of Smokescreen's orbital ridges crawl up his forehead and he raises his servos as though in surrender. “Easy, Sides. No need to get testy. I just thought since we were swapping backstories, fair's fair.” 

“Yeah, well, it's a boring story,” Sideswipe retorts and scans the bar again. Devcon better show up soon or he can consider this deal off. 

Smokescreen gives him a long look, lowering his servos back to the table. “All right,” he says. “I won't ask.” 

He's good for that, Smokescreen is, dropping issues when Sideswipe needs him to.

o0o0o

_We want him_ , Onslaught had said to Swindle one orn, and with no decent trades on the schedule, no good races, and Sideswipe lacking in new lessons, Swindle had bid the former commander good luck and gave Sideswipe a push out the door. Smokescreen had laughed, promised that no harm would come to him – much – and winked.

Sideswipe was left on his own, staring up at the three towering, military builds of Vortex, Brawl, and Onslaught. Respectively, intrigued, amused, and bored. 

“Why do you want me?” Sidewipe asks as he trudges along behind Onslaught, twitching every time he hears Vortex huff a little laugh behind him. He just knows the rotary is staring at him. 

“Because we're bored,” Brawl offers. 

There's a clunk as Vortex slaps the tank across the back of the helm. “Dumbaft,” he says, in an all too cheerful tone. “But seriously, it's because you're still interesting.” 

Sideswipe ignores both of them, looking up at Onslaught who doesn't twitch at his subordinate's behavior. “Because you can be useful and it's about time you learned other skills,” Onslaught says, his voice a taut rumble. 

“I'm not selling my frame!” Sideswipe says, drawing to a halt. And he doesn't care what his contract says. 

Brawl gives him a push in between his shoulders, sending him stumbling several steps forward. 

“Don't be stupid,” Onslaught retorts without breaking stride. “You're nowhere near pretty enough.” 

Was that a joke? If so, it's in poor taste. 

“For some mechs, maybe,” Vortex says and another chuckle escapes him. 

Sideswipe whirls around as a digit drags down his backstrut, eliciting a shiver. 

“I, however, find you very interesting.” 

Sideswipe smacks his servo away. “Stop it!” he hisses, and hates how small he feels around these mechs. All of them have at least a helm and a half on him, though Onslaught is the tallest. They are also bulkier, heavier, the mass difference all too evident in the force of their pedefalls, the sound of their systems working. 

“Feisty, too.” Vortex grins, visor flashing. 

“Enough,” Onslaught says, still in that mild tone, and gestures to Sideswipe, pointing to a stop by his side, a silent gesture for Sideswipe to get there and pronto. “Whoever designed your frame is a smart mech. You've got the makings of a warrior in you. That is, with a few modifications.” 

“Warrior?” Sideswipe is confused. “And what kind of mods are we talking about?” 

Brawl's engine rumbles with excitement. “Weapons,” he says, and claps his servos together, rubbing them with shrieks of metal on metal. “My department.” 

“And armor,” Onslaught adds. “Along with certain skills that ensure you'll last longer than the first round.” 

“And those skills, my pretty racer, are where I come to play,” Vortex says, leaning over to purr into Sideswipe's audials. “I know all the best ways to cause pain and make it look good.” 

“You're going to earn us tons of creds!” Brawl declares with a giddy upthrust of his fist. “You're going to be famous.” 

Onslaught rumbles skepticism. “Don't get ahead of yourself, Brawl. He'll be lucky to win. At this point, we only expect survival.” 

This does not sound like a good time to Sideswipe. He'd much rather be with Swindle and Smokescreen, planning their next trade. 

“I'm a tradesmech,” Sideswipe says. “I'm not sure I like the sound of this.” 

“You will,” Onslaught replies and starts walking again, leaving Sideswipe no option but to follow. “Because I still own your contract for the next ten vorns.” 

Sideswipe grinds a few gears. “Wait. I thought Swindle--”

Vortex laughs, clapping a servo on Sideswipe's shoulder, energy field drizzling down and teasing at his substructure. “Swin don't have that much free capital.” 

“We kinda share you,” Brawl adds. 

“I'm surrounded by glitches,” Onslaught mutters and tosses Sideswipe a baleful look obvious even through his visor. “You better not become one of them.”

o0o0o

Sideswipe gasps, hitting the mat hard, a few systems knocked into soft reset. He's sore from helm to pede, cables aching and tight, and dents peppering his plating. Groundhog would have pitched a fit.

Onslaught's of the thought that self-repair is a mech's best friend. Luckily, Smokescreen believes differently. Hopefully this time, Sideswipe won't need to hobble down to Glit's clinic. 

“Get up,” Vortex says, stalking around him, like a turbofox circling a glitchmouse. Amusement in his energy field betrays him; he's having fun. “C'mon, Sides. I barely tapped ya.” 

He groans, trying to get his servos beneath him. “You call that a tap?” Sideswipe demands, processor reeling. 

“For me? Yeah.” 

Sideswipe feels more than sees Vortex's self-satisfied grin. 

“Don't feel bad, you are getting better,” the rotary says. “Get up. We're nowhere near done.” 

He flops onto his back, limbs splayed across the floor, venting furiously. “I'm done,” Sideswipe says, shuttering his optics. 

He can feel the vibrations of Vortex's pedefalls around him. “No such thing in the pits,” Vortex says, stepping closer and nudging him with a pede. “You give up, you die.” 

Sideswipe onlines an optic, shooting his trainer a cheeky grin. “Good thing I'm not in the Arena yet, isn't it?”

Vortex laughs hard enough to rattle his rotors and he leans down, offering Sideswipe a servo. “Ons ain't going to take that kind of excuse.” 

“You're not Onslaught,” Sideswipe retorts as Vortex hauls him up and he stumbles, gyros still unsteady. “You give me slack.” An energy field tingles across Sideswipe's plating, warmth emanating from Vortex's frame. 

“That's cause you give me reason to.” Vortex's visor lights up with amusement and interest. He tilts his helm, digits squeezing on Sideswipe's servo. “And Ons has a pole up his aft.” 

Sideswipe chuckles. “I noticed. Got some energon for me?” 

“Depends. What do I get for it?” Vortex makes no attempt to hide his leer, free servo landing on Sideswipe's hip, stroking a rather large dent he'd given Sideswipe earlier in the training. 

Sideswipe would be more surprised if nearly every training session didn't end in the same manner. Vortex has a voracious interface drive and he has no shame in indulging himself. 

Sideswipe used to say no. He's never forgotten Vortex's comments about needing a pet. So that made him a little... wary. 

“Cables only,” Sideswipe bargains. He's too tired for anything else. He swears to Primus that Vortex is a fountain of endless energy. 

Mech's left him passed out in a berth on more than one occasion, only to return with a partner or two. 

Smokescreen just shakes his helm. Like he did the last time Sideswipe crawled back to their apartment all but wrung dry but satisfied to the core. 

Vortex's visor lights up with amusement. “We're gonna have to work on your endurance,” he teases, servo sliding up and between seams, stroking over the heated cables beneath. 

Sideswipe shivers, engine giving a tired but aroused rev. “Can't that be a lesson for another orn?” 

Vortex chuckles, energy crackling on his digitips. “I'll give ya an introductory course right now.”

o0o0o

Sideswipe's first clue that Cybertron is going to the Pit is when a riot breaks out in the streets. Mechs are angry, shouting about energon prices and availability. Enforcers arrive to quell the mob, but only exacerbate the madness.

Sideswipe remembers Wirelight's death which had been caused by such a riot. But he stays out of it, watching from the sidelines, unaffected. What good will a mindless mob serve? What do they hope to accomplish?

Swindle and Smokescreen ignore it entirely. 

“You can't blame them,” Swindle says as he flicks through the news coverage on the vid screen, his tone bored and dismissive. “Energon's gone up thirty percent in the last ten vorns. And that's for the low grades, watered down as they are.” 

“The mines are losing productivity,” Smokescreen adds as he comes into the main room, carrying a box of goodies. “Workers are dying, energon's harder to find, and we don't have steady solar power to recharge the farms.” 

“Some argue it's the natural order of things. The law of Primus,” Swindle says with a contemptuous grind of his mouth components. “Only the worthy can survive. Except in their definition, worthy means those with the most creds.” 

Sideswipe twists his chair around, plopping down and resting his arms across the back of it. “So it's only going to get worse?” He can hear, despite their conversation, the sounds of shouting and mayhem in the streets below. 

“Tension's building,” Smokescreen says, offering Sideswipe some of his treats. “Someone's going to snap. Either the High Council will use force or the civilians will take advantage of their numbers. The whole planet's slowly going glitched.” 

Smokescreen's right about one thing. 

The uneasy tension shatters when Ultrix is blown to bits, fire consuming everything with no survivors. 

Smokescreen had bet wrong, however. He thought the civilians would be the first to break. But it was the Senate who abandoned patience and fair thought. 

Ultrix was a small mining outpost on the edges of Kaon. It had suffered a catastrophic accident, according to the official reports but no one believed them, least of all the civilian populace or the residents of nearby Kaon and Tarn. 

And especially not Megatronus who is quickly becoming the face and voice of a rebellion that's now sweeping across Cybertron in an all-consuming wave. It seems simple and righteous in intent: freedom, equality, the need for a new system... 

That much Sideswipe can agree with. Cybertron is a broken planet, rife with viruses, corrupted to the core. Change must be had. 

He wonders, though, if what this rebellion is doing is even going to help matters, or only worsen them. After all, he asks himself, what does a gladiator know about fixing the future of Cybertron?

o0o0o

The roar of the crowd is addictive. Their adulation, their glee, their admiration... it seeps under his plating, fires up his circuits, makes his spark pulse.

The first few matches had terrified Sideswipe. Standing before another mech who was armed and eager to rip him apart had left Sideswipe shaking in his plating. His tanks had churned their contents and every lesson Onslaught and Vortex had given him had promptly evacuated his processor. 

But he'd survived. He'd fought back. He'd learned when to retreat and when to press forward. He'd learned how to block, how to rip and tear, how to get up, again and again, even when his plating's been crushed, lines have been torn, and his senses are addled. 

It feels crazy, to keep going back into that spark-threatening ring, but Sideswipe keeps doing it. He doesn't bother racing anymore. It's just not enough. There's no real danger, no real threat. There's no challenge to the racing. 

In the ring, however, everything is different. 

Sideswipe stands on his own two pedes, feeling crusted energon and metal bits beneath him, the roar of the crowd thunderous in his audials, the lights near-blinding, and he finally feels alive. He can't explain it. He doesn't have the words to describe why he enjoys it, why he needs the next round.

Onslaught doesn't complain and neither does Swindle. Not when Sideswipe is earning them forty percent off every victory and not when he never says no.

It's Smokescreen who tries to protest. 

“You're going to get yourself killed,” he says before Sideswipe's next scheduled match, against a massive triple-changer with more brawn than processor, so Sideswipe's not worried at all. 

Sideswipe rolls his optics, checking and re-checking the integrity of the welds on both of his forearms. Vortex has outfitted him with a pair of energon daggers recently and Sideswipe likes watching them slide from their sheaths, the hot metal dripping in ropey spools to the ground. 

“I've managed to get this far,” he retorts, and by this far, Sideswipe means the third tier of gladiating fame. 

“Because you're lucky.”

“Only in part.” Sideswipe frowns at Smokescreen, optical ridges drawn low. “I'm good at this, Smokescreen. Why are you the only one who can't see that?” 

A gusting ventilation echoes in the small prep room. “There's always someone better, Sides. It's the nature of the predacon. And I don't want to be the one picking up the pieces of you because you got in over your helm.” 

Sideswipe ignores him. It's a discussion they've had before and it's always baffled Sideswipe how Smokescreen finds some tasks safe and acceptable, while others are dangerous and/or unscrupulous. 

“What are you going to do when you hit the second tier?” Smokescreen demands, unwilling to let matters lie apparently. “You know they don't settle for knock outs. They want to see you rip out a mech's spark.”

Sideswipe huffs, even as a runner raps on his door, telling him he's got less than a breem before he needs to show his faceplate. “First, you're telling me I'm not good enough to stay alive. Then you're telling me I'm actually going to make it to the second tier. Which is it, Screen?” He throws down his rag, making for the door. 

Smokescreen steps in front of him, sensory panels splayed wide, effectively barring his way. He looks more serious than Sideswipe ever remembers him looking. 

“If I'm not out there in less than a quarter breem, I forfeit, Smokescreen,” Sideswipe says, folding his arms over his chestplate. “I don't think Ons or Tex is going to like that too much.” 

“I'm not stopping you. I just want you to tell me that this is what you want. That you're not doing this because Onslaught made you.” Smokescreen's energy field reaches out, questioning in the same note as his vocals, seeking reassurance. 

This really is not the time for a spark to spark. 

“I want to,” Sideswipe says, rising up on his pedes and falling back again. The ultra-charged energon in his systems seeks an outlet, and if he doesn't get out there, he's going to find the nearest halfway decent mech and start fragging them. 

Let Smokescreen pontificate over that. 

“I like fighting,” Sideswipe adds and tries to slide past Smokescreen, huffing in relief when the Praxian steps aside. 

“You going to like killing, too?” Smokescreen asks, voice following after Sideswipe though his frame stays rooted in place. 

He never watches the rounds, is only there in the aftermath, helping Sideswipe to the arena medics and never saying a word. Of course he'd choose now to start protesting. 

“I have to go,” Sideswipe throws over his shoulder, ignoring Smokescreen's question, one that he has no intention of answering. 

Not, Sideswipe thinks, that he has a good answer for it anyway. Is he ready to start snuffing out sparks? No. Is it something that has to be done?

Sideswipe's not sure about that either. But if he doesn't step pede into that ring, face down his newest opponent, and win, Onslaught is going to be fragged. The last thing Sideswipe wants to do is slag off the mech that has ownership of his contract, even if only in part. 

Did he agree to the matches? Yeah, he sure as slag did. As for the rest of it, well, Sideswipe supposes he'll swim that sea of rust when he comes to it. 

For now, surviving's still the name of the game.

o0o0o

The summons arrives when Sideswipe is limping out of the Arena's idea of a medical center, his left leg aching at the hip, and his frame covered in fresh, bright welds. It's going to be a quartrex before he's fight-worthy again. But he'd won and that's what matters.

Second tier, here he comes. 

Or so he thinks. And then the summons arrives, delivered by a scuffed up minibot with faded yellow-brown paint. 

“Here,” the mini says in a gruff voice as he shoves the datapad at Sideswipe, height differences ensuring that it collides with his lower abdomen, striking a weld-line. 

Sideswipe grunts as a fresh wave of sharp pain radiates outward and snatches at the datapad, grabbing it before the mini can do more damage. “Watch it!” he snaps and peers at the dark screen. “What the frag is this?” 

“It's for you,” the mini says and turns on a pede, stomping away with all the noise his small frame can make. “Dumb aft.” 

It's a waste of effort to go after the little piece of scrap. Besides, Sideswipe's in no condition to do anything anyway. 

Smokescreen finds it all amusing as the Pit. “You know he's one of the fifth tier fighters, don't you?” he asks as he peers over Sideswipe's shoulder at the datapad. “Rumor has it he's as strong as a tank.” 

Sideswipe rolls his optics. “He's the size of a sparkling.” He flicks on the device, waiting patiently for the old program to finish loading. 

“Looks can be deceiving, Sides. What's on the pad?” 

Glyphs appear on screen and Sideswipe skims them. He then cycles his optics, reboots his language program, and reads it again. 

“It's from Onslaught. They want me to meet someone. Gave me coordinates.” 

“Who?” 

Sideswipe hands over the datapad so Smokescreen can read it for himself. “Megatronus, apparently.” 

Smokescreen's sensory panels go so rigid Sideswipe can hear the hinges snap into place. “The Megatronus? As in the undefeated champion of the Arena?” 

“And postermech for the rebellion? Yeah, that's the one.” 

Sideswipe pushes his way through the crowd, limping to the lift that would take them to an upper level where the more popular gladiators could be found. Only a few are spoiled in such a manner and Sideswipe's not one of them. He still shares that tiny flat with Smokescreen, but at least his lot is better than those in the lowest tiers – they have no choice but to fight in the Arena. 

“Aren't you even curious as to why?” Smokescreen asks as he hurries to catch up, shoving the datapad back in Sideswipe's direction. 

Sideswipe rolls his shoulders. “I guess I'll find out when I get there.” A thread of unease worms through his spark. Why would Megatronus want to see him?

Conversation lapses into silence as they step into the lift, empty of other passengers, and Sideswipe hits the button to take them several floors up. The lift shudders and creaks, smelling faintly of old oil and scorched metal. 

Onslaught is waiting for them when the door opens, his visor looking Sideswipe over from helm to pede with critical dispassion. “Your paint looks atrocious.” 

Sideswipe scowls. “I didn't exactly have time for a touch-up,” he retorts, limping out into the hallway. His hip is really starting to ache. 

“You were slow on the rebound,” Onslaught says, reaching out and poking said hip joint with one blunt digit, prompting a fresh flare of pain. “You must learn to pivot faster.” 

“I did win, you know,” Sideswipe mutters. 

“Only just.” Onslaught turns, striding down the hall, and Sideswipe and Smokescreen are quick to fall into step behind him. “You need a refresher. As soon as Vortex returns, I'll have him contact you.” 

A number of responses, none of them polite and all sure to inspire a quick backhand, dance at the tip of Sideswipe's glossa but he mutters a 'yes sir' and says nothing else. Onslaught is not a taskmaster quick to forgive; Sideswipe remembers that all too clearly. 

Should Cybertron hold it together long enough for Sideswipe to renegotiate his contract, he's sure as slag going to either buy it himself or find a better proprietor. He's tired of not knowing what the slag is going on. 

“Now I don't know why Megatronus is interested in meeting you after that poor showing,” Onslaught continues as they turn down another hallway and approach a series of doors, “but I couldn't very well turn him down. He all but owns the Arena.” 

They come to a stop outside a door, a mech with baleful optics giving them the once over. He's a big brute, too, but Sideswipe would guess there's not much going on upstairs. 

“Are you telling us to be on our best behavior?” Smokescreen drawls, sensory panels jerking upright. 

“No. I'm telling _him_.” Onslaught gives Sideswipe a firm stare and turns to the nameless guard at the door. “Megatronus is expecting us.” 

“Just the red one,” the mech rumbles in quite possibly the deepest vocal register Sideswipe has ever heard. He steps aside, one elbow slamming the door and causing it to slide open. 

Stiffening his backstrut, Sideswipe holds his helm high. He's not afraid, absolutely not, but there's a certain logic to being wary. 

“Behave,” Onslaught all but growls. 

Sideswipe ignores him, stepping inside a massive suite that makes him more than a little jealous. His tiny flat is just that, tiny. It's minimally furnished, the walls are thin, and there's a not-so-subtle scent of cheap chemicals and transfluid in the air. Some of his neighbors are chemical-addicted and suck that slag into their systems as often as they can buy it, or trade their frames for it. 

Large, open windows are the sole entirety of the far wall. Two closed doors hint to further rooms, perhaps a berth and a private racks. Megatronus himself sits in the center of the room, in a comfortable chair, another mech standing behind him, large and silent. He's a dark blue, with an oversized chassis compartment, a frame-type Sideswipe does not recognize. Perhaps he's a colony mech, though what he's doing here, Sideswipe can't guess. 

“Sideswipe,” Megatronus says, lifting one silver, clawed servo to gesture. “Congratulations on your victory.” 

He stops, glancing at the chairs but deciding he'd feel better on his pedes, even if his hip is threatening to make his leg collapse. “It wasn't very impressive,” Sideswipe admits. Especially in comparison to Megatronus' more entertaining bouts. 

“But you survived,” Megatronus says, leaning forward and bracing his elbows on his knees. His red optics gleam. “That is the key. Survive is what we do, down in the rust and gutters. It's what makes us strong.” 

Sideswipe tries not to fidget and fails. Is he supposed to respond to that? “Uh, yes, sir.” 

Megatronus laughs, but it's not all amusement. “I am neither your boss, your superior, or your proprietor. I do not own you.” 

Sideswipe's optics track to the silent mech behind Megatronus, but it's hard to tell with the visor and the mouthplate if the mech is even paying attention. 

“Onslaught tells me you are a merchant by original design,” Megatronus continues, unbothered by Sideswipe's lack of response. “Clearly, your spark was meant for grander things.” 

“You could say that,” Sideswipe hedges. 

Megatronus arches an orbital ridge. “You don't believe it?” 

A slow ex-vent escapes Sideswipe. “I'm a low caste tradesmech without an honest trade. I'm worth slag.” 

“That's what the Senate would have you think.” Megatronus' optics brighten, a fierce crimson that sets a ripple of unease through Sideswipe's spark, though he can't explain why. “You have good instincts, Sideswipe. The spark of a warrior. Why, I wouldn't be surprised if one orn I find you to be my next challenger.” 

Sideswipe lets a shaky smile curl his mouthplates. “I think that's several vorns off, though I'm flattered.” 

Megatronus rises to his pedes, giving him a long look. “We'll see.” He turns, skimming past the couch, clasping his servos behind his back. “I'll be watching your progress. I am certain you won't disappoint.” 

“Yes sir.” Sideswipe winces but how else is he supposed to address Megatronus? 

The gladiator's quiet chuckle seems to echo in his quarters. “Good luck, Sideswipe.” 

Is that a dismissal? 

Behind him, the door slides open and when Sideswipe looks, the guard gives him a long, baleful stare. Apparently, it is. 

He makes his exit with significantly more speed than he used entering, and finds that Onslaught has gone, leaving only Smokescreen to wait him, trying and failing not to look concerned. 

Sideswipe can't explain it, but he strongly felt that he'd been measured and found wanting. There had been a calculating weight in Megatronus' optics and the whole situation was weird to start with. 

“What was that all about?” Smokescreen asks as they hurry down the hall, faster than Sideswipe's hip enjoys but at a healthy clip his uneasy spark savors. 

Sideswipe shivers. “I wish I knew, Smokescreen. I wish I did.”

o0o0o

They call themselves Decepticons and their leader is none other than Megatronus, who has shortened his designation to Megatron, declaring himself the future ruler of Cybertron. Citizens and military builds alike are flocking to the Decepticon banner, eager to throw off the oppressive chains of the Senate, desperate for change.

With energon in short supply, Enforcer raids happening in abundance, and authorities throwing civilians in shackles for imagined slights, Sideswipe supposes he can't blame them. But war? It seems a little drastic. 

Mechs are dying. Cities are going up in flames left, right and center. 

Ultrix is burnt husks and empty frames. Tarn's a wasteland. Uraya's a crater. 

Smokescreen's business has gone to the Pits and only Swindle is capable of supporting them anymore, since he wised up and dumped consumables in favor of weapons. He's got a new business partner, too, some mech called Lockdown that Sideswipe avoids every chance he gets. He doesn't like how the mech watches him. 

Honestly, Sideswipe doesn't see much of Swindle at all anymore. And since Smokescreen's own ventures are drying up, the Praxian has nothing better to do than accompany Sideswipe to his varying matches. Right now, Sideswipe's winnings are all that's keeping him and Smokescreen refueled. 

Cybertron's going to the Pits but the Arena's still functioning as though it doesn't have a care or concern on the planet. 

Well, some of the fighters have up and vanished. Rumor has it that they've been killed by the Senate and its allies. Other rumors point to them joining the Decepticons. Sideswipe leans toward the latter. After all, Megatron is a ring-favorite and now that he's off leading his Decepticons in a battle against the government, it doesn't surprise Sideswipe that a lot of the others are following him. 

A line's been drawn on Cybertron, a mentality of 'us versus them.' Megatron's Decepticons are building an army, one swelling in ranks with each passing orn. Enforcers and Elite Guard form the foundation of the Senate's defense, and though they are more skilled, they are outnumbered. There are a lot of bitter, angry mechs out there. 

Praxus has openly allied itself with the Senate, arresting any and all Decepticons or their sympathizers. Some have even started wearing a brand to counter that of the Decepticons. They're calling themselves Autobots. 

Kaon has become the Decepticon hub. Megatron's managed to kill or drive out any form of Senate-related government to make it his home base. He's got some powerful lieutenants, only one of whom Sideswipe recognizes, the comms mech Soundwave. And rumor has it, Megatron's in negotiations with the Emirate of Vos. If he succeeds, than the Senate really will have reason to fear. 

An army of Seekers is more than enough to stand against the might of the Elite Guard. 

“You look pensive.” 

Sideswipe stirs from his musings, turning away from the window and the trash-cluttered streets below. Simfur is starting to look abandoned, mechs flocking to the safety of Praxus or the ranks of Megatron's Decepticons. All that's left behind are the Empties, the stubborn, and the so-called Neutral. 

“Lugnut and Strika didn't show up for their matches,” Sideswipe replies as he flops down on their uneven couch, in front of a vidscreen that's increasingly nothing but propaganda and terrible things. “I'm pretty sure they've gone to the Decepticons. Lugnut practically sniffed at Megatron's pedes and where Lugnut goes, so does Strika.” 

Smokescreen plops down next to him, though with better care for his sensory panels. He offers a cube of sludgy energon, with doesn't so much as glow blue as it does flicker dimly. “This is a bad thing?” 

“Depends on who you ask.” Sideswipe eyes the cube and decides he is sufficiently fueled. It looks more like sludge and the last thing he wants to do is taste it. He tucks it away in his subspace for an emergency. “Sooner or later, there isn't going to be anyone left.” 

“What are you thinking?” 

Sideswipe frowns. “I'm thinking I don't want to fight in anyone's war. But I'm also thinking we're going to have to pick a side.” 

Smokescreen makes a noise of agreement, his energy field reaching out for Sideswipe's own to offer commiseration. “We got other options. Onslaught's talking about a ride to Monacus.” 

“Leave Cybertron?” Sideswipe's helm swings toward Smokescreen, unable to hide his shock. “Why would we do that?” 

“Because the planet's going to be a warzone inside of a vorn?” Smokescreen asks, one servo waving vaguely through the air. “It's either fight or flee at this point, Sides. And I'm not keen on either side.” 

Engine rumbling with shock, Sideswipe subsides back against the couch, processor whirling. “Running away isn't my idea of an option either.” 

Smokescreen props a pede up on the low slung table, picking at his knee joint with distracted digits. “The Senate has the firepower, but Megatron has the advantage of numbers. Nothing good is going to come of this war.” 

Silence lapses between them, Sideswipe watching the vidscreen flash through image after image of destroyed cities, mechs battling against each other, Megatron's speeches, and the Senate's empty reassurances that peace will return soon. Their new Prime still hasn't shown his faceplate and Sideswipe doesn't expect him to. Optimus Prime is merely a pawn for the Senate, a figurehead. He doesn't have any real power. 

Maybe Smokescreen's idea of heading for Monacus is a good one. Though the thought of leaving his home planet for a distant world grinds like rust in his gears. There isn't much here that Sideswipe would miss, he has little to no attachment to the things around him, save the few relationships he's managed to build, but he still balks at outright leaving. 

Smokescreen expels a noisy ventilation. “We're going to have to decide sooner or later. Neutrality isn't going to mean slag for much longer.” 

Sideswipe makes a wordless noise of assent, only to tip his helm. “What's this 'we' stuff? You don't have to stick around if you don't want to.” 

“You think I'm going to leave you here to get yourself killed?” Smokescreen's pede slides off the table and hits the ground with a dull thud. 

“Why not? You don't owe me anything.” 

Smokescreen jerks to his pedes, his energy field retracting so quickly it leaves Sideswipe's sensors reeling. “You can be such an aft sometimes. Primus only knows why I worry about you.” 

“Smokescreen--”

“It's only been, what, ten vorns since you joined up with us? We might as well be strangers. Frag me for caring.” 

Sideswipe frowns. “I'm not ungrateful. You really helped me out.” 

“You think this is about gratitude?” Smokescreen turns so sharply that his sensory panels make a sharp crack in the air. His optics are pale, mere echoes of their usual bright, blue shade. “I'd expect this from Swindle, but Primus! You're like a brother to me, you glitch. I guess I shouldn't bother getting so attached.” 

He kicks out at the table and whirls on a pede, storming out of their tiny flat before Sideswipe can formulate a response. He frowns, sinking back into the couch, flinching when the door slams shut. 

Sideswipe stares at the vidscreen without really seeing it. Guilt claws at him from the inside out. Smokescreen had been genuinely offended. 

Well, of course he is. Sideswipe rolls his optics at himself, drawing up a leg and bracing his pede on the edge of the couch. They've been working together for a long time. Swindle liked to go off on his own ventures a lot, and he had his secrets, so Smokescreen and Sideswipe kept to each other. 

Sideswipe ex-vents a soft whuff of air, rubbing a servo down his faceplate. 

Smokescreen still treats him like a youngling, indulging him more often than not, and sometimes, Sideswipe catches him with this fond look on his faceplate. He never knows what to say though, so he makes some lame joke or pretends he never noticed in the first place. He knows that Smokescreen misses his family, though he doesn't admit it, and misses his brother especially. 

Sideswipe's never had enough of a family to know what missing one might be like. Frag, he doesn't know what it is to have one in the first place. 

Drift had been in and out of his functioning, barely a blip on his sensory suites. Barricade and his mechs, well, they'd been a team. Barricade was an aft with a penchant for striking mechs that displeased him and Groundhog barely cracked a smile and Motorhead talked too much and Rollerforce could be thoughtlessly cruel. 

Fasttrack is a faceplate best forgotten. 

Onslaught's as bad as Barricade if not worse and the less said of Brawl the better. Vortex is a distraction but one Sideswipe can only take in small doses. Swindle's morals leave him more than a little wary. 

Smokescreen's really the only one who gives a frag. And Sideswipe's all but thrown that back in his faceplate. 

He's the biggest fragger of them all. 

It's several joors before Smokescreen comes back, so late that it's nearly day-cycle though it's hardly bright outside. Sideswipe's pretty sure that Simfur isn't getting energy anymore. 

He leaps to his pedes, stirring from a drowsy state, spark pulsing in his chassis. A jumble of words dance through his vocalizer only to get caught on his glossa. 

“Shouldn't you be in recharge?” Smokescreen asks as he pushes the rickety door shut behind him, his vocals flat. 

It only makes the guilt rise up and crash down on Sideswipe, spinning his spark into a constricted ball of remorse and disappointment. 

“I'm sorry,” Sideswipe blurts out, all of Wirelight's training in communication gone by the wayside. 

Smokescreen draws up short, but then his sensory panels flatten against his plating. “Don't be. It's not your fault,” he replies, and his tone is still flat and careful. 

“It kind of is.” Sideswipe drags a servo over his helm, rebooting his vocalizer in hopes of forcing out some words. “I got so used to not getting attached, being left alone in some shape or form, that I just, I don't know... stopped bothering.” 

An ex-vent escapes Smokescreen and he steps closer, one servo lifting to pat Sideswipe on the shoulder. “You don't owe me anything. Not an answer or an apology.”

The heavy feeling of guilt worsens, tightens in his tanks like a duryllium weight. “It's not a matter of a debt.” Sideswipe flexes his plating, staring hard at the floor. “You're all I got Smokescreen. And I'm a glitch for forgetting that.” 

Smokescreen releases an exasperated sound. “No, I'm sorry I snapped. It wasn't my intention to inspire a guilt trip.”

“I needed the wake up call.” Sideswipe lifts his helm, catching Smokescreen arm before the other mech can walk away. “I'm serious, Smokey. I was an aft.”

Smokescreen shakes his helm, a wry grin chasing at the edge of his mouth. “We could go on discussing this all night and keep apologizing for it, but it won't get us anywhere. You're sorry and I'm sorry. Let's just leave it at that.” 

“Are you staying?” 

He hates that there's a thin note of desperation in his vocals, not unlike a first-frame version of himself, begging the Enforcer not to take his caretaker away. 

“Yeah, Sides, I'm staying.” Smokescreen claps a servo over his own, giving it a squeeze. “You can't get rid of me that easily. Partners, remember?” 

Tension eases out of every line and cable. “Yeah,” Sideswipe says with a soft smile of his own. “Partners.”

o0o0o

There's no one left to fight.

Swindle's gone. He's been gone for a few quartrex, but Sideswipe feels his absence more keenly now. He never thought he'd miss the tradesmech's wry humor or questionable morals. 

Onslaught and Vortex and Brawl... they joined the Decepticons. Sideswipe wasn't surprised by this. All three of them were military mechs and with Cybertron more or less becoming a planet of war, there's not much else to do but join one side or the other. 

Smokescreen stuck around, like he said he would, and Sideswipe's ridiculously grateful for that. He's used to being alone, he can tolerate it, but it's nice, too, not to be alone. 

They have to make a choice. To fight or to flee. 

“The last shuttle leaves tonight,” Smokescreen tells him as they stand at the window, staring into deserted streets. “It'll take everything we have left but I can still get us tickets.” 

“And then what?” 

Night cycle approaches, but there's not enough power left in Cybertron to keep the city running. The street lights stay dark, and soon enough, they'll be dark during day cycle, too. The Senate is, bit by bit, removing provinces, city-states, towns... every sector of civilization from the energy grid. 

Sideswipe wonders how long it will take before the whole planet goes dark. How long, he asks himself, until Cybertronians cause their own extinction?

“We wait.” 

Sideswipe looks at Smokescreen, who doesn't appear any more certain than the lack of conviction in his tone. “Wait for wait, Smokey? For the war to be over?”

“If it comes to that, yes.” Smokescreen leans forward, bracing his arms on the sill, sensory panels the lowest Sideswipe's ever seen them hang. “Neither side is appealing. The Autobots will lose, but Megatron... I do not trust his intentions.” 

“And if it was a matter of waiting, the war would have never begun in the first place.” Sideswipe ventilates a harsh gust of air. “When it comes down to it, we are only two mechs who don't want to get offlined and don't really have a stake in the war.” 

“That is where you are wrong.”

It takes a moment for both Sideswipe and Smokescreen to realize that neither of them had spoken. 

Sideswipe whirls, offensive routines cycling up in his processor, his arm-mounted blades humming to life. Smokescreen, weaponless as he is, slides into an offensive stance. That Enforcer training comes in handy. 

A ghost is standing in their doorway, a smirk on his lipplates and a lazy, confident stance. Sideswipe's jaw drops, offensive routines stuttering to a confused halt. 

“Barricade?” 

“You look surprised to see me,” his blast from the past drawls, stepping further into the room. 

He's gotten a new paint job, black all over, no hint of his former red and dark purple detail. He's taller, too. And a discreet scan indicates the presence of weapons, lots of weapons. But his faceplate is the same, as is his voice and the edge of his energy field. 

Sideswipe does not fail to notice the bright, fresh brand on Barricade's chestplate. Decepticon purple, sharp angles and all. 

“Last I saw you were getting hauled away by the Enforcers,” Sideswipe replies, and puts himself between Smokescreen and Barricade, just because. 

It's been vorns upon vorns since he parted ways with the Race Track Patrol in the midst of dangerous circumstances. Mechs can change. Sideswipe knows he has and he won't be surprised if Barricade has as well. 

That brand makes it pretty fragging clear that something's different. Since when has Barricade ever cared for politics? 

Barricade grins with a mouthful of sharp denta. “Yeah, those were fun times,” he says with a sarcastic sneer. “And if not for Megatron, I'd still be rusting in Perihex's underlevel prison.” 

“Then it wasn't just a rumor,” Smokescreen speaks up, his voice curious but his energy field giving off an uneasy waver. “Megatron did destroy the prisons and free the inmates.” 

“Unfairly imprisoned mechs and femmes,” Barricade hisses, his wing fairings jutting upward in offense, not unlike Smokescreen's sensory panels. “He liberated us from unjustified incarceration.” 

Sideswipe's spark squeezes down. “What about the others?” 

“Rollerforce is dead,” Barricade says, optics shifting back to Sideswipe, cycling down from their bright gleam. “Motorhead, too. I hear rumors that Groundhog went underground. Re-framed. But if he's still alive, he hasn't surfaced.” 

Sideswipe slumps, guilt clawing at him from the inside out. 

Movement on the edge of his vision and Smokescreen steps up beside him, laying a comforting servo on Sideswipe's shoulder. “What did you mean earlier when you said we were wrong?” 

Barricade pokes around the tiny flat, peering into what few nooks and crannies the apartment has to offer. “If you think you don't have a stake, you're wrong,” he says, though he doesn't look at either of them. “Cybertron is changing. And whatever the outcome, whatever functioning you had before is going to change with it.” 

“What are you suggesting?” Sideswipe asks, watching Barricade's progress around the tiny room until he pauses before the windows, looking out at the ruined city. 

“Isn't it obvious?” Barricade half-turns, tapping his chestplate. “I've got an offer for you. A better one than you'd get trying to play it Neutral for the indefinite future.”

Smokescreen frowns. “An offer? Since when did we get so valuable?” 

Barricade smiles that razor-sharp smirk again. “Since the both of you clung to your civvies.” He stares pointedly at Smokescreen. “And that you're a Praxian helps.” 

“What do you want?” Sideswipe demands, folding his arms over his chestplate. He edges between Barricade and Smokescreen yet again. 

If they say no, he doesn't know what Barricade might do, and Sideswipe's the one with the military-grade armor. He can take a hit. Smokescreen's still a merchant, for all that he was once an Enforcer. 

“Grew some bearings, didn't ya?” Barricade laughs, his optics shifting back to Sideswipe. “Megatron's got a job for you, if you're tired of cowering like some thin-plate. The benefits are slag, but we got energon.” 

“For now,” Smokescreen says and he steps up beside Sideswipe, studying Barricade with a deep frown. “What makes you think we want to go Con?” 

Barricade arches an orbital ridge. “You don't exactly want to go Bot either.” He shrugs, spreading his servos in dismissal. “But fine, stay here. Buy those tickets. Head off to some Neutral colony. And pray to Primus your shuttle doesn't get blasted out of the sky.” 

Is that a threat?

Smokescreen seems to think so. He goes rigid, sensory panels snapping against his backplate. Sideswipe reaches behind him, laying a servo on Smokescreen's arm, trying to calm him. 

“If we say no?” 

“Rejection's always an option.” Barricade shrugs again and turns on a pede, striding toward the door. “Not the best one, mind, but an option. Chrono's clicking, Sides. And I've got other places to be.” 

He leaves, but the tension doesn't drain out of either Sideswipe or Smokescreen's fields. 

“How did he find us?” Sideswipe asks. 

“We're on the edge of Decepticon territory,” Smokescreen replies, his vocals tight and uneasy. “Can he be trusted?” 

Sideswipe lets go of Smokescreen's arm and frowns. “Cade looked out for me a long time ago, but it was hardly out of the kindness of his spark. I brought him creds, he kept me fueled and functional.”

Smokescreen scuffs a pede against the floor, indecision heavy in his field. “What do you think?”

Sideswipe isn't sure what to think. He hates this whole fragging war, wants no part of it, but it's pretty obvious he doesn't have a choice in that matter. All he can do is decide what side he wants to bleed for. 

“The shuttle's looking more and more like an option,” Sideswipe says, but shakes his helm, turning back toward their supply cabinet. “But it's a stop-gap at best. If it even makes it off the planet.” 

He opens cabinet, pulling out what they have left of rations, medical supplies, and anything else that might prove useful. He's learned to keep his weapons on him at all times. Mechs are getting desperate out there. 

“You think they'd shoot it down?” 

“Don't you?” 

Smokescreen huffs an aggravated ventilation and moves to help Sideswipe pack, stuffing anything he can fit into his own subspace. “I don't trust the Decepticons.” 

“I trust the Senate even less.” 

“Then that settles it.” 

Sideswipe tosses his partner a wry glance. “We're tradesmechs? We should at least be able to negotiate something, right?” 

Smokescreen rolls his optics, grabbing the last roll of nanite mesh and stuffing it into an arm compartment. “If Barricade hasn't gone.”

“He's not,” Sideswipe replies. 

He's right, of course. By the time they make it down the hall, three flights of stairs, and emerge into the deserted streets, Barricade is waiting for them, one pede tapping with impatience. 

“Took you long enough,” he growls. “Ready?” 

“We'll listen to your proposal,” Smokescreen says, sensory panels lifted in what Sideswipe has come to learn is aggression. “That's it.” 

Barricade shrugs. “Good enough for me. Let's go.”

o0o0o

Megatron has made Kaon his own.

Everywhere Sideswipe looks are armed mechs brandishing the purple sigil of the Decepticons. Kaon has become a fortress, staffed by soldiers, its skies protected and patrolled by an armada of Vosian Seekers. 

He sees more than a few familiar faceplates, from the Pits mostly but a few from his trade contacts, too. 

Smokescreen stands out. Sideswipe notices this immediately. Praxus is well-known as being allied with the Autobots and apparently, few of them had gone Decepticon, if any. Smokescreen gets a lot of looks, some curious, most suspicious. 

Barricade's presence, however, keeps the more heated stares at bay. 

“You must be an officer,” Sideswipe says. 

“Something like that.” Barricade's laugh is dark. “I'm Spec Ops.” 

“A spy,” Smokescreen says. 

Barricade flashes them a grin as he leads them to the tallest structure in Kaon, a jagged spire that dominates the skyline. “And saboteur. Assassin. Take your pick.” 

The guards at the door let Barricade pass with his 'guests' and a keycard gives them access to the inner sanctum. The klik Sideswipe and Smokescreen pass the threshold, he feels the telltale prickle of a scan wash over him from helm to pede. It's strong enough that his spark pulses uncertainty. 

“What the frag was that?” Sideswipe demands, hurrying to keep up with Barricade's fast pace. 

“Security measures. Hear that?” 

He and Smokescreen exchange glances, and not for the first time does Sideswipe wonder if this is not only a bad idea, but the worst one. “No.” 

Barricade waves a dismissing servo. “Exactly. Means you're clean. No Autobot contact. Lucky for you.” 

Sideswipe doesn't feel so lucky. In fact, he distinctly feels like he and Smokescreen are in far over their helms. 

The feeling doesn't fade, only worsens as they go deeper into Decepticon headquarters. And it settles into a low, heavy dread in his tanks when Barricade finally puts them in the same room with Decepticon high command. 

This is the second time that Sideswipe has stood before Megatron and he is no more sure of himself now than he was back then. That Smokescreen is next to him is no comfort. They are surrounded by Decepticons, in the middle of Decepticon territory, and Sideswipe has never so keenly felt his own vulnerability. 

They are Neutrals. But in this war, there is no such thing. 

Denial, he thinks, is not going to be an option. 

“Got some fresh energon for ya,” Barricade says with a denta-filled smirk, helm tilting upward. “Just like you wanted.” 

Sideswipe recognizes only a few of these mechs, save the dark blue carrier-mech that had been at Megatron's left shoulder last time. There is another mech here, a tri-colored Seeker, that Sideswipe feels he has seen before, and of course, Sideswipe knows Lugnut. But the others are mysteries. 

“Good work, Barricade,” Megatron says, though his crimson optics never leave Sideswipe or Smokescreen, the weight of his gaze unwieldy. 

He's bigger than the last time Sideswipe saw him. A cursory glance – Sideswipe doesn't dare initiate any scan – and he can tell that Megatron's doubled the strength of his battle armor. He's had some serious work done to his substructure, probably to add more weaponry, and he's at least two helms taller. 

He's crafted himself entirely for war. 

“I aim to please,” Barricade replies, but it doesn't sound the least bit deferential. He gives a cursory salute to the Decepticon leader. “And if you'll excuse me, I've got a few more on the list.” 

Megatron waves a dismissing servo. “Go.” 

Barricade doesn't have to be told twice. He turns to leave, but not without shuttering an optic in Sideswipe's direction. 

“Don't disappoint me, kid,” he growls, and Sideswipe knows that tone all too well. How many times has he heard those very same words snarled at him before a race? 

Sideswipe says nothing, but he feels Smokescreen shift closer to him, almost protectively. As if he has any hope of taking down Barricade. Sides has seen Cade take down a mech twice his size with vicious disregard. 

“I do not trust him,” the Seeker says the moment the door closes behind Barricade, his voice one that makes Sideswipe's audials cringe in disgust. “And you are a fool for doing so.” 

“Be silent, Starscream,” Megatron retorts, and it's almost offhand, a practiced rebuttal that hints of constant use. 

His optics shift back to Sideswipe and that's when he feels the heavy prickle of a deep-frame scan. Smokescreen's energy field flicks beside him, no doubt sensing the scan as well. 

“We've been scanned already,” Smokescreen says, with a bravado that Sideswipe's not sure he can match. “What are you looking for now?” 

“Suitability,” the carrier mech says. “Recommendation: parameters fulfilled.” 

“Good,” Megatron replies and the corner of his mouth curves upward. He leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, lacing his digits together. “Do you know why you are here?” 

Mentally, Sideswipe cracks his joints and dusts off every negotiation lesson once stuffed into his helm. 

“Barricade mentioned a job,” Sideswipe says, picking his words carefully. “Though he was evasive on the duties of it.” 

The Seeker, Sideswipe notices, shifts on the edge of his vision, the scowl on his lipplates deepening. One wing flicks, as though he wants to speak but thinks better of it when Megatron's engine gives a warning rumble. 

“You, Sideswipe, are exactly what I need,” Megatron says, and his optics cycle down, becoming narrow slits of burning red. “A civilian frame, previously unannounced ties, and no known associates.” 

“Why?” Smokescreen asks. 

Megatron rises to his pedes, massive frame easily shifting weight with an unexpected grace. “Because I want to know what that fool is planning. Every move that he intends to make.” 

That fool? Sideswipe can only assume that he means Optimus Prime though there is a certain measure of loathing in Megatron's tone that seems incongruent. It sounds... personal, as though the new Prime has somehow offended Megatron and not just by existing. 

Sideswipe vents in and out. “You want us to be spies.” It's more a statement than a question. His optics dart among the three Decepticons, Megatron and what are probably two officers in his army. 

Starscream flicks his wings, making an exasperated noise. “He's a quick one, oh glorious leader. You certainly know how to pick them.” 

Megatron's engine rumbles, back plating lifted in warning though he doesn't turn toward the Seeker. “Yes,” he agrees. “I want answers and I want you to get them for me.” 

“You have spies of your own. Infiltrators,” Smokescreen points out and no doubt he is thinking of Barricade, just as Sideswipe is. “Why do you need us?” 

“Civilians: untrained,” the carrier mech answers, his monotone an uncomfortable buzz in the air. “Civilians: likely to join Autobots. Military builds: unlikely.” 

Sideswipe frowns, crossing his arms. “You could reformat any one of your mechs to be a civilian.” 

“And we have,” Megatron says, with a curl of his lipplate that is half-arrogance and half-amusement. “But I've never been the sort to put all my weapons on the same frame.”

In other terms, Smokescreen and Sideswipe are expendable. It's nothing he wouldn't have expected. 

Starscream stomps forward by a pace, planting his servos on his hips. “Are you going to do it or not? Barricade seems to think you've got the bearings.” He jerks his chin upward, gaze weighing and dismissing all at wants. “Personally, I think you're just heading to the scrapyard.” 

“Your vote of confidence is overwhelming,” Sideswipe retorts dryly. 

The rumble of unamused engines vibrates across the floors. 

“This is unexpected,” Smokescreen hurriedly says, his energy field flicking out a warning to Sideswipe. “Our lack of loyalty is pretty obvious, right? What, exactly, are your terms?” 

Megatron waves a dismissing servo. “It's simple enough. You join the Autobots, learn what you can, and report it back to me. When I know what I need to know, we'll extract you.” 

Extract? Sideswipe muffles a snort of disbelief. He doesn't trust Megatron or the Decepticons any further than he can throw them. No doubt their idea of extraction is more along the lines of assassination. 

“Could we have a moment?” Smokescreen asks. “Discuss between ourselves?” 

Starscream's wings twitch, betraying his irritation. “Want a berth and some energon, too?” 

“Starscream,” Megatron says in that warning tone of his, cycling down his optics. “Take them to a room.” 

Those Seeker wings flare broadly, indignation written in Starscream's features. “I am not some--”

Megatron lowers his helm, rising slowly to his pedes. 

And that, apparently, is all it takes. Starscream whirls on a heel, plating clamped down in a classic sulk. “Follow me,” he snaps.

Trading glances with Smokescreen, Sideswipe moves to follow the irritated Seeker. There's a lot of tension here in the upper echelon of the Decepticons. Maybe they don't have as much of an advantage over Prime and his Autobots as Sideswipe initially thought. 

Starscream takes them out of the meeting room, down the hall, to a smaller room that is devoid of decoration and furniture. 

“You have two breems,” Starscream says, hovering in the doorway as they move past him inside. “Choose wisely.” 

The door slides shut behind him, leaving them in solitude. 

“Here.” 

Sideswipe turns to find Smokescreen offering him a datacable from his arm. He gives it a long, incredulous look. 

“No offense, Screen, but I'm not interested,” Sideswipe replies. 

Smokescreen rolls his optics, stepping closer, their energy fields mingling on the edges. “Not the time for a joke, Sides.” He lowers his vocal tones even further. “I don't trust that they aren't listening.” 

“Smart move,” Sideswipe says. His plating prickles and though there aren't any visible signs of recording equipment, he doesn't doubt they are present. He takes Smokescreen's cable, popping the dataport on his own wrist. 

“Of course it is,” Smokescreen retorts as the connection between them syncs, systems connecting on a level that is unhackable. “And for the record, you'd be lucky to swap cables with me. I have a reputation, you know.” 

Sideswipe twists his mouthplates. “Eww, Screen. Just... eww.” 

Platonic affection pulses warmly across the link, along with a hefty dose of amusement. Smokescreen reaches out, digits wrapping around Sideswipe's wrist, just above where they are connected. His energy field is flat now, a quiet tremor of unease beneath the surface. 

\--What're you thinking, Smokescreen?-- Sideswipe asks, once the datastream between them shifts into standby. 

He watches as his partner's optics shift away, sensory panels lifting only to flatten against his backplate, a classic 'thought' pose. --We can't trust them.--

\--Obviously. But we're not walking out alive if we say no.-- Sideswipe's optics wander to the door, thinking of the Decepticons beyond it, waiting. 

Smokescreen's vents let out a hiss of air. --There's something they aren't telling us. I don't buy that they want our help specifically.--

\--Me either.-- Sideswipe better believes that he and Smokescreen were chosen just because they are more expendable than Megatron's loyal Decepticons. 

He can feel Smokescreen contemplating their options over the connection. Smokescreen's tactical programming is running various paths. And though Sideswipe doesn't have anything like that of his own, he's no less busy. 

\--That shuttle's sounding pretty good, isn't it?-- Smokescreen asks with a rueful grin and twitch of his sensory panels. 

Sideswipe shakes his helm with a laugh. --Too late for that, Screen.-- He ex-vents softly. --I say we do it.--

\--Join the Decepticons? Play spy?-- Smokescreen asks, filled with disbelief. --That's like asking to be offlined.--

Sideswipe arches an orbitral ridge. --You got a better idea?--

Not unsurprisingly, Smokescreen doesn't have a better option to offer. Neither does Sideswipe. They are caught in the middle, with death no matter which side they take. Megatron is better armed and staffed, the Prime has a better foothold and better equipment. 

No matter who wins, all of Cybertron is going to lose. 

\--We can do this,-- Sideswipe says, ex-venting defeat. --It's just like a trade, a con.--

Smokescreen tilts his helm. --You mean, play both sides?--

\--Exactly.-- Sideswipe rolls his shoulders, gears grinding down in distress. --Survival is the name of the game for us, Screen. That's all that matters anymore. Surviving.--

\--All right,-- Smokescreen says and his sensory panels flatten, folding against his backplate. --Then we'll take the offer. But together.--

Sideswipe grins and disconnects their cables, the need for privacy no longer necessary. “You could always take that shuttle. Ow!”

He reaches up, rubbing his helm where Smokescreen had smacked him, fingers snapping against a sensory horn. “What was that for?” 

“For being a glitch.” Smokescreen huffs, but there's affection in his tone. “Who else is going to watch your back? And if you make me have this argument with you again, I'm going to get fragged.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Sideswipe waves a dismissing servo. “Let's go tell the Cons they have themselves some new spies.”

“Hey.” Smokescreen grabs his arm before he can hit the door panel and Sideswipe turns back toward him. “No matter what, we survive, right?” There is an unease in his partner's energy field, and Sideswipe can hardly blame him. 

His lipplate tugs into a smile. “Yeah,” Sideswipe agrees, and reaches out with his own energy field. “Whatever it takes.”

(End Act I)


	3. Keeping the Innocent

****

Act II – Sunstreaker

He is missing something.

Sunstreaker wanders around in a circle, tracing the edges of the room, peering into every nook and cranny. He climbs onto his chair, tries to remember, peers across the table, and climbs down again. 

He's forgotten something. Hasn't he? 

He looks under the chair and under the table. He wanders to the window and peers through the thick glass into a dark sky. He sifts through his stack of datapads and stares at the vid-screen for a few moments. 

He has to find it. It must be important to him. There's an ache in his spark and only it will ease the twinge. 

What is it? 

Sunstreaker huffs a ventilation and starts his route all over again. He has to find it. 

“What are you doing, sparkling?” 

He startles, looking up guiltily into the bemused optics of his caretaker. Nightfall is sitting on the big couch, digits poking at his holo-display, a mech's frame spinning in slow circles in front of him. 

“I'm looking for something,” Sunstreaker answers. He ignores the laughter from behind him. His brother is an aft, though Sunstreaker isn't supposed to know or say that word. 

His caretaker smiles, tilting his helm. “What is it, Sunny? Maybe I can help you find it.” 

“I don't know.” Sunstreaker fidgets, optics glancing to his left and right again. “Maybe I'll know it when I find it.” 

“You're so fragging weird,” Tracks says with a loud laugh that instantly cuts off when Nightfall shoots him a stern look. 

“Hush, Tracks,” their caretaker says. “And mind your glossa.” He saves his progress on his work, setting the display unit on the table. “Come here, Sunstreaker.” 

He obeys, the urge to find the missing item fading. 

Sunstreaker gladly climbs into Nightfall's lap with the help of his caretaker's strong servos. Caretaker has big, blue optics and a beautiful grey chevron. Sunstreaker likes to trace it with his digits over and over, until Nightfall laughs at him because it tickles. 

“What makes you think something is missing?” Nightfall asks, his warm servo resting on Sunstreaker's backplate. 

Sunstreaker rolls his shoulders in a shrug. “I don't know. I just do.” He looks over his caretaker's shoulder, at Tracks who is staring at them and making weird faces. He's so mean sometimes. “I feel like I'm forgetting something important.” 

Nightfall makes a thoughtful noise in his chassis and Sunstreaker leans closer, resting his audial against his caretaker's chestplate. He likes to listen to the sounds echoing in the bigger mech's chassis. 

“Does your spark still hurt?” 

Sunstreaker shakes his helm, metal rasping softly against metal. “Not anymore,” he says. The achy twinge has gone away. 

Whatever he's missing, maybe it's not important because he can't remember what it is anyway. 

Sunstreaker looks up, offering Nightfall a smile. “Can I have an energon gummy now?” 

His caretaker laughs, patting him on his backplate. “I don't see why not.” He leans closer, vocals dipping to a whisper. “We'll make Tracks share his.” 

Sunstreaker giggles.

o0o0o

“What is this place?” Sunstreaker asks, one servo clutching Nightfall's as his helm twists and turns, struggling to not miss a thing.

He can feel Nightfall's amusement in his caretaker's energy field and then Nightfall squeezes his servo affectionately. “This, Sunny-bot, is an art gallery.” 

Art?

Sunstreaker isn't sure what to call it himself. Everywhere he looks is color, bright splashes of it. The huge dome with its high ceiling and big, open windows only make it seem that much brighter. The smell of hot metal is thick in the air, and it's not unpleasant. 

There are statues, both carved and welded. And there are paintings, lots of them, hanging from the walls and the ceiling and set up on displays in the middle of the floor. There are drawings and sketches and woven tapestries of the finest metallic fiber and there's something playing from the speakers, a soft melody that vibrates through Sunstreaker's spark in such a way it makes him sing. 

“It's amazing,” Sunstreaker says on the edge of a ventilation. He whips his helm around, trying to see everything he can see. 

Nightfall chuckles. “I thought you might enjoy it. What do you want to see first?” 

“Everything!” 

Nightfall laughs again and leans down, sweeping Sunstreaker up into his arms so that he can get a better view without being hampered by the forest of mech and femme adult-limbs around him. “You have to start somewhere, Sunny-bot. We'll get to everything in time.” 

Sunstreaker grins, but indecision wracks him. He doesn't know. Everything is so optic-catching. He thinks about the statues only to get distracted by the splash of purple-blue over on that canvas. The painting looks fascinating but over in the corner is a display of frame-designs and loyalty threatens to win out. 

“The designs,” he says finally. “They must have dozens of yours!” 

Nightfall gives him a brief, affectionate squeeze. “They do have a couple. But you've seen all of mine already.” 

“Want to see them again.” 

“If you insist.” Humor rippled in Nightfall's energy field, dosed with bright rings of fondness. “To the designs it is. Though, I'll have you know, one of Tracks' recent works is on display here, too.” 

Sunstreaker's face contorts with annoyance. “Don't care about Tracks.” In fact, he doesn't want to think about his brother at all. The firster likes to make Sunstreaker's orns miserable. He's a glitch and a half. 

“He's your brother, Sunstreaker.” 

“He hates me,” Sunstreaker retorts, and squirms in Nightfall's arms, suddenly wanting to be on his own two pedes again. 

Nightfall doesn't fight him, setting him down, but keeping a grasp on his servo, not that Sunstreaker is going to run off on his own. “He does not. He is simply jealous. He will learn otherwise in time.” 

Sunstreaker frowns, the itchy-squirmy sensation starting up in his chassis again. His helm dips, one servo touching his thin chestplate, feeling the irregular pulse of his spark energy beneath it. His frame thrums from the force of it. 

“Jealous?” he repeats, but his vocals sound distant, even to his audials. 

There's... something. 

Sunstreaker's focus turns inward, anxiety threading through his spark. It doesn’t hurt, not this time, but there's something else, a feeling of sadness. Of being lost and alone. Abandoned. 

He is missing something. He is forgetting something. 

What is it?

His frame jerks and Sunstreaker startles, stumbling forward in surprise. He squeezes Nightfall's servo, trying to catch his balance, letting loose a burst of ventilation. 

Nightfall turns back toward him, confusion in his energy field. “Sunstreaker?” 

He shakes his helm, unable to explain it. At least, not in ways that won't make Nightfall get that weird look on his faceplate, interest and regret and disappointment all roiled together. Sometimes, worry overrides it all and then Sunstreaker gets taken to Steadfast again and the medibot never finds anything wrong. 

No. Best not to say anything at all. 

“Sorry,” he says. “I was distracted.” 

Nightfall gives him a long look but finally offers a smile. “Easy to do here, isn't it?” He squeezes Sunstreaker's servo and starts walking again. “We'd better hurry if you don't want to miss anything.” 

Sunstreaker nods and falls into step beside his caretaker, determined to ignore the strange sensations in his spark.

o0o0o

He holds absolutely still as Dragline applies the final coat to his finish. If he moves, his gloss will smudge and Tracks will laugh while their caretaker frowns in disapproval. So he does not move.

“Almost done, Sunstreaker,” Dragline says, amusement ripe in his tone, as well as affection for the youngest spark of his master. 

“I know. I'm patient.” 

Sunstreaker offlines his optics and carefully cycles his ventilations, controlling his every motion. Except, however, for the lingering twinge in his spark chamber. It aches from time to time but Steadfast hasn't been able to find a plausible explanation for the ache. 

'Growing pains' Steadfast had called them. He had assured Nightfall that they would go away with time. Perhaps even by Sunstreaker's second upframe. 

The pains themselves harken back to a time when all Sunstreaker remembers is pain. Pain and darkness, all before Nightfall and Tracks, a time Sunstreaker prefers to forget. 

Except, perhaps, the designation Wirelight. He keeps that little tidbit close to his spark and never utters it aloud. 

“Are you well, young master?” 

Sunstreaker fails to stop himself from grimacing. “I'm fine. Please don't call me that, Dragline.” 

Behind him, the door to his personal chambers opens with a chiming announcement. Efficient pedesteps identify his visitor, not that Sunstreaker would have worried otherwise. 

“It is a matter of respect, Sunstreaker,” Nightfall says as he enters Sunstreaker's chamber, the door closing behind him. “It is in Dragline's coding.” 

Happiness nearly makes Sunstreaker move, though he thinks twice about it. “Nightfall! I thought you had left for Polyhex.” 

He can feel his caretaker's optics on his frame. “Did Tracks tell you that?” There is a hint of displeasure in Nightfall's tone. 

“Maybe,” Sunstreaker hedges. He doesn't want his brother to get reprimanded again. It never helps and tends to make Tracks even more obnoxious. “You're not going?”

“I am. I have a few joors yet.” Nightfall steps up beside him, standing within Sunstreaker's peripheral vision. “Did you think I would leave without saying goodbye?”

The fine-bristled brush sweeps one last time over a pectoral line before Dragline steps back. “All done, young master,” he announces. 

“Thank you, Dragline. He looks exceptional as always.” 

Dragline dips his helm, though it fails to conceal the pleasure and gratitude in his expression. “It is my pleasure, sir. Excuse me.” 

Gathering up his supplies, Dragline exits the room and Sunstreaker finally lowers his arms, ex-venting a sigh of relief. He can move again! 

He turns toward his caretaker, briefly admiring the stunning sheen to Nightfall's navy and grey paint. “I understand that you are busy,” Sunstreaker says quietly. “And that I cannot be selfish.” 

“True.” Nightfall gives him an approving smile. “But I will always strive to say my farewells in person. I don't wish you to feel abandoned.” 

“It never crossed my processor, Nightfall,” Sunstreaker replies, which is the utter truth. 

“And I will speak with your brother,” his caretaker adds, resting a hand on Sunstreaker's helm, an easy feat considering that he's two helms taller than his ward. “I suspect he was playing a prank on you, if not one mean in spirit.” 

Sunstreaker accepts the offered embrace, leaning his helm against Nightfall's expertly polished chestplate, the symbol of their house prominent and bold. “Don't be too hard on him. I think he's still angry.” 

Nightfall chuckles. “I think he is, too. He will get over it.” His caretaker's fingers stroke his helm in a soothing pattern that Sunstreaker remembers from the darkness, bringing him back to consciousness. “How are your lessons?” 

Ugh. _Those._

“They'd go faster if you'd let me upgrade and download data chips,” Sunstreaker replies, unable to hide the hope in his vocals. 

Hope that is quickly dashed when a rumble of disapproval resonates in his caretaker's chassis. “No, Sunstreaker. That is how ordinary mechs assimilate. You have an advantage here. Enjoy your youth. Embrace it.” 

He lifts his helm. “But--”

Nightfall taps him on the olfactory sensor with a single digit. “I said no.” 

Disappointment wells. Sunstreaker's helm dips, his shoulder slumping. He hates being so far behind his brother. It reminds him of all the things he wants to forget. 

“I understand,” his caretaker says, tone gentled. That same digit tilts Sunstreaker's helm back up. “You want to catch up to your brother as soon as possible.” 

How does Nightfall always know these things? Sunstreaker nods. 

“Every mech has their own pace. You merely need to find yours.” Nightfall smiles, the curve of his lips reassuring. “No cheating. Understood?” 

He expels a ventilation of resignation. “Yes, Nightfall.” 

“Good.” His caretaker's smile brightens and he leans forward, brushing his lip components over Sunstreaker's forehelm. “I'll be back in a diun. Mind Dragline and Windshear.” 

Sunstreaker nods again. “I will.” 

“Keep up with your lessons. If I get a good report, we'll see about incorporating the arts into your future instruction.” 

Excitement wells. History and mathematics and the sciences are boring. But art? Music and poetry and sculpting and dance... Sunstreaker's spark gives off a happy pulse. He's been longing to explore the arts!

“Really?” 

“I never say anything I don't mean.” Nightfall dips his helm, pressing it briefly against Sunstreaker's. “Remember that.” 

“I do.” Warmth suffuses his spark, chasing away the lingering itch. “Have a safe trip.” 

Nightfall smiles and pulls away. “I'll bring you back something nice.” 

Sunstreaker watches his caretaker go and manages to hold himself in until the door closes behind Nightfall. Only then does he pump his fists into the air in excitement. 

Art! Finally!

o0o0o

The sound of his door chime pulls Sunstreaker from his datapad. He frowns, looking up from his studies of advanced mathematics.

Dragline is off-grounds attending to some business for Nightfall and Windshear excused himself not long ago. Besides, both of them have the privilege of entering without knocking by order of Nightfall. 

There's only one mech who would actually ask for permission and Sunstreaker's not in much of a mood to speak with his brother. He's still smarting from Tracks tricking him into playing that stupid game. 

He ignores it. 

Tracks chimes again. 

“Go away!” Sunstreaker shouts at the door, glaring at his datapad as he angles his frame away from the door, curled as he is in the windowseat, facing the gardens below. 

His door opens without his permission. Outrage pulses through Sunstreaker's spark as he whips back around, interest in his datapad forgotten. 

“Tracks! That's rude!” he protests, glaring at his brother, only to pause when he sees the look on Tracks' faceplate. 

It's neither amusement nor playful, as it usually would be when Tracks comes by just to annoy the frag out of Sunstreaker. 

Something inside of Sunstreaker goes very, very cold. 

“What is it?” Sunstreaker demands, setting his datapad off to the side to be forgotten. “Why are you looking at me like that?” 

Pulling out the chair at Sunstreaker's terminal, Tracks sinks down into it, leaning forward and bracing himself on his knees. “Sunny--”

“Don't call me that!” he bites out and his servos bunch into fists of uncertainty. His optics search Tracks' face for a clue and he gets nothing. 

Fear starts to wind its way with the disquiet. 

“I'm sorry.” Tracks cycles a ventilation and rubs his servos down the length of his thigh paneling. “Sunstreaker, there's something I have to tell you.” 

A sharp degree of fear stabs through his spark. Mechs only start conversations like this if they have bad news to deliver. At least, that's what always happens in the vid-shows.

Sunstreaker's vocalizer clicks, but no words emerge. 

“Nightfall's gone, Sunstreaker,” Tracks starts, and his optics are everywhere but on Sunstreaker, misery at once cascading through his expression. “There was an accident. A collision. He didn't even make it to emergency medical.” 

The words don't compute. Sunstreaker hears them, but he can't translate their meaning. It doesn't make any sense. 

Of course it doesn't. Because Tracks can be a real fragger when he wants to be. 

Sunstreaker's optics cycle down as he jerks to his pedes, glaring at his brother. “That's not funny, Tracks!” he says, stomping one pede loudly. “It's the stupidest prank you've come up with yet.” 

Tracks' expression doesn't change though. He doesn't get that look he always gets when Sunstreaker catches him in the midst of a lie or trying to play on Sunstreaker's gullibility. 

“I wish it were a prank,” his brother says, vocals edging with static and his shoulders drooping. His optics are dim, carrying not the brightness of his usual dark humor. “But it is the unwelcome truth. Nightfall is gone.” 

“You're lying.” 

It feels as if someone is squeezing Sunstreaker's spark. His ventilations stutter and his vision swims. 

Tracks stands and Sunstreaker looks up at him, but his brother is blurry and his chassis hurts and it's a lie. 

“You're lying and you better stop or Nightfall's going to cut off your allotment for a whole diun this time!” 

He hears a hum, a soft sound that carries through the air and straight to his audials. It's familiar in a painful way. It's the first thing he remembers after the pain. And then arms are wrapping around him and Sunstreaker still can't see a thing. 

“I'm sorry,” Tracks says, his vocals rumbling in his chassis, vibrating against Sunstreaker's helm, one servo stroking his helm in comfort. “Primus, I'm sorry that it's not a lie. He's not coming back and it's just us now. You and me.” 

He clings to Tracks because he doesn't know what else to do. He doesn't want to believe the awful truth, but Tracks has never lied about something this serious. 

Fear and grief collide within Sunstreaker's spark, the pain amplifying, and his short functioning catches up with him. A strangled keen rises from his vocalizer. 

It's not fair! 

“It's okay,” Tracks murmurs, still making that noise, that familiar hum that Nightfall had used to often to soothe a purge-haunted Sunstreaker. “You're not going anywhere. I promise. You're family, Sunstreaker.” 

“But you hate me!” he wails, thoughts bouncing back and forth in his processor. 

Nightfall's gone. He's alone. All alone again. 

...Again?

Tracks' arms spasm around him, tightening his embrace. “I don't hate you,” he says with a sharpness to his tone Sunstreaker's never heard before. “You annoy the Pit out of me, but I don't hate you, Sunstreaker. You're my brother. You'll always be my brother.” 

It's not right. This isn't how things are supposed to be. Nightfall promised!

Sunstreaker sags, curling inward, his spark aching and twisting and firing with a familiar ache. He sobs a ventilation, Tracks' murmuring a buzz in his audials. 

“I'm going to take care of you, of us,” his brother is saying, over and over. “It's going to be okay. I promise.” 

Why can't Sunstreaker believe him?

o0o0o

Deep below the spiraling reach of Iridium Tower lies the mausoleum where all of the past mechs and femmes of the Iridium family are entombed. Some have fallen due to spark failure. Some have fallen in accidents. But all have been interred here in this crypt, laid to rest on berths of fine metal, encased within an elegant casket, and guarded by statues of grand design.

It is a slow progression that takes them down. The low hum of half-a-hundred mechs and femmes vocalizing their grief seems to resonate in the hallways, vibrating through Sunstreaker's pedes and through his chestplate. That ache has returned, stabbing through his spark chamber, but he doesn't dare show his wince. 

He walks beside Tracks, and they, in turn, are mere steps behind Nightfall's casket. His frame has been mended, cleaned, re-painted. Sunstreaker half expects him to rise from the duryllium sheet and declare it was all a joke. A tasteless one, but a joke nonetheless. Sunstreaker would prefer that outcome. 

He looks up at his brother once, but Tracks' faceplate is a mask of emotions, mirroring their once-Caretaker already. Emotions are allowed in private, around the boundaries of their home. Here, in public, he has to be controlled, even in the face of Nightfall's funeral. 

Half-a-hundred mechs walk behind them, in near matching strides, adding to the vibrations in the hall. The humming dirge shifts to words, an old dialect that no one really speaks anymore, but that Sunstreaker's expected to know. 

The mausoleum is small in comparison to the Towers. Cybertronians function for a long, long time. Failing sparks are few and rare between. They pass eight caskets, guarded by their intricate statues, displaying a frame-style of a different time. It's like walking in a history vid and any other time, Sunstreaker might have had some interest in studying the unusual designs. 

It has taken a diun to craft Nightfall's sentry, the large construction rising taller than Nightfall had ever stood, the expression on his faceplate unfamiliar and unfriendly. He better resembles a stern teacher than the smiling, kind caretaker that Sunstreaker remembers. For that reason alone, the sentry looks nothing like Nightfall. 

The casket is slotted into position, the lid laid over the top. Sunstreaker, silent, stands and watches. The song continues its mournful tune, though the half-a-hundred mechs behind him are all but strangers. Politicians and coworkers and fellow Towers-mechs. Not a one of them really knew Nightfall. 

Dragline and Windshear hadn't been allowed to attend. It isn't proper. Sunstreaker's half-surprised that no one protested his own attendance. 

One of the priests from the temple comes forward. He launches into a speech about Primus' Will, how Nightfall is now one with the Allspark, and how his unexpected offlining is a disheartening loss for the Towers community. He speaks of grief and hope and bright lights in a dark hour and Sunstreaker tunes out most of the insincere blather. 

The rest is a blur of speeches. Mechs Sunstreaker has never met or barely knows rise to offer words about his caretaker. 

Tracks speaks but his words are a carefully crafted speech that say a lot without saying anything at all. He can't talk about all the things that really made Nightfall a mech worth knowing. Those truths are private and his speech sounds as empty and flat as all the others. 

Sunstreaker hates it all. He doesn't give a speech. No one asked him and he doesn't offer. He doesn't want to stand up there saying things that don't matter. 

Nothing helps. And nothing's going to bring Nightfall back.

o0o0o

“This is not up for debate!”

Sunstreaker pauses mid-step, helm cocked. That had sounded like his brother's voice, raised like Sunstreaker has never heard it before. 

“No offense, your honor, but I am certain that I know what is best for myself and my brother!” 

Who is Tracks yelling at?

Frowning, Sunstreaker picks up the pace, following the sound of Tracks' voice to one of the offices on the main hall. It's the one Tracks favors because of the large windows overlooking the back crystal garden. 

The door is parted by a mere sliver, but there's just enough for Sunstreaker to peer inside. He can see his brother's back, the twitching stabilizer, and beyond it, the edges of a large monitor. Tracks is obviously in conference with someone, but Sunstreaker doesn't know who. 

“--no duty for your caretaker's decision,” a voice is saying, one Sunstreaker doesn't recognize, but it has a thick Iaconian accent. “You are not obligated--”

“Enough!” Tracks' servo whips through the air, the word a near-snarl of anger that is also new. “Sunstreaker is family. He is my brother, regardless of his origins. I will not abandon him because you are of the opinion it is the better course.” 

_Oh._

Emotions twist and tangle within Sunstreaker, his spark giving a lurch of understanding. He drops his optics, half-turned from the door. 

Another voice cuts into the conversation, the smooth lilt of a femme. “Lord Tracks, you are barely into your third frame. You are not equipped to mentor or raise a youngling.” 

“Then lucky I am not a commoner. I can afford to acquire the necessary aid.” Tracks' vocals are as cold as a carbon freezer. “Sunstreaker is staying here. That is my decision.” 

Sunstreaker's ventilations are shallow. Even so, they sound like they echo in the ensuing silence. 

Someone on the monitor cycles their own ventilation. “Very well,” the mech from before concedes. “It is your right to make that decision, however ill-advised it might be.” 

“Your support is appreciated,” Tracks replies, but he sounds far from appreciative. His tone is flat and unwelcoming. 

“Noted.” 

There is a beep and a blat of static, the sound of a transmission ending. 

Sunstreaker lifts his optics back to the door, a debate raging inside of him. He should turn away because it's impolite to eavesdrop, but that twisting-churning sensation in his spark just won't go away. 

His brother looks tired, shoulders slumped, and his servo lifting to rub his faceplate. Traces of his energy field are tangible, flat with annoyance. 

_You are only a burden_ , a tiny voice whispers in the back of Sunstreaker's processor, but he bats it away violently. 

The ache in his chassis magnifies, and with it a return of the loneliness, the strange pain that afflicts him from time to time. The pain that no medic has ever been able to explain and the designation that floats in the back of his nebulous memories whispering _Wirelight_.

Sunstreaker pushes the door open and slips into the office before he entirely knows what he's doing. He scuffs his pede against the floor by accident, announcing his presence. 

Tracks whirls, and offers a shaky smile of surprise. “Sunstreaker, I thought you were studying.” 

He's young, but he's not a moron. His brother is concealing a mishmash of emotions that must be giving him sensory whiplash. 

“Why didn't you listen to them?” Sunstreaker asks. 

Tracks cycles his optics, helm tipped with confusion. “What?” 

“You don't owe me anything,” Sunstreaker says, treacherous parts of his processor murmuring reminders at him. “You don't have to take all this worry on. You don't have to keep me.” 

Keep. Like a toy, a pet. He's a youngling, but Sunstreaker's heard the rumors. He's seen the way the other Tower heirs look at him. He's not stupid. 

They wonder, why would Nightfall adopt some abandoned youngling from common stock? Why would he bother?

Why else but to amuse himself? Why else but to have a pet?

They are wrong. They know nothing. But only Sunstreaker will ever understand that. They had not been there, they had not seen the way Nightfall smiled at him, pulsing love and affection in his energy field. 

Nightfall loved him and sometimes, it is the only truth Sunstreaker can cling to in the darkness. 

“No, I do not.” Tracks agrees, and gets closer, his vocals firm. “I want to. You are my brother, no matter what they say.” 

“But--”

Tracks shakes his helm, and Sunstreaker clamps his mouth shut. His brother kneels in front of him, his servos resting on Sunstreaker's shoulders. “You let me worry about adult things, Sunny. You just concentrate on your studies. Understand?” 

His fingers curl into a fist over his chassis, the ache receding by degrees. “Yes.” 

“Good.” Tracks smiles and this time, it doesn't look like a mask for the turmoil beneath. It is genuine to the core. He pats Sunstreaker's shoulders and rises to his pedes. “Now come show me what you've been learning.”

o0o0o

He keeps to the edges, circling the perimeter, the gazes of two dozen mechs lingering after him, their open disdain like an itch in his plating. Sunstreaker wants nothing more than to retreat to the privacy of his quarters, his studio, and stay there until all of these strangers and judgmental mechs leave his home.

But he cannot, because Tracks is hosting this business social and to do so would be rude. Sunstreaker's had enough codes of conduct drilled into his processor to make his helm spin. He wouldn't want any of these stupid mechs to look down on his brother, though he doesn't care what they think of him. No matter how much he polishes or perfects himself, he's not one of them and he'll never be one of them. 

This gathering, amongst so many others, has made that abundantly clear. 

And he especially doesn't want to embarrass Tracks with their leader present. Sentinel Prime is a large, imposing existence at center stage in the grand hall. He's holding court with most of the attendees, lords of other Towers, senators, and mechs of high repute. 

Sunstreaker clutches a cube of mid-grade energon, the highest Tracks would let him have, and lets his optics track over the various frame designs present. Some of them are his caretaker's work. He can recognize Nightfall's flair in an optic ridge here, or a finial there. Others are by Tracks' design, whose aesthetics lean more toward swathes of paint to accentuate sleek curves and angled lines. There are other, lesser known designers represented as well. 

Admiring and cataloging and criticizing, even if only in his own helm, is the only method Sunstreaker has learned to get through these pompous affairs. 

His optics slide past Mirage, lordling of a nearby Tower, closest perhaps to his own frame-age. They know each other by reputation alone. Tracks has encouraged Sunstreaker to meet with Mirage on more than one occasion but Sunstreaker has always declined. It doesn't take a genius to know that he wouldn't be welcomed beyond a required politeness. Because Mirage and his caretaker, like everyone else, knows that Sunstreaker isn't one of them. He is other, no matter what Nightfall had intended. 

He wasn't commissioned, he was adopted. The horror. 

Sunstreaker huffs over his energon, and sips at it. He checks his chronometer. Two more joors of this tiresome and pretentious affair and it will be over. He has only to hold himself together until then, even if the twitching under his plating is growing more irritating by the breem. 

“Whyever are you hiding back here?” 

Sunstreaker startles at the unexpected voice so near to his audial. He whips around, nearly tripping on a table leg, to see a mech standing just beside him, an amused grin curling his lipplates. 

It takes a klik for Sunstreaker to remember the elegant poise he is supposed to display. “I was not hiding,” he replies, edging a step back from the unfamiliar mech who is still too close. “I was observing.” 

A husky laugh emerges from the mech. “From behind the table. Should you not be out socializing?” 

“I suppose I should,” Sunstreaker agrees, optics flicking to his brother, but Tracks is deep in negotiations with Clarity, Mirage's caretaker. “But that would require initiating a conversation that I am sure no one wishes to have.” 

The mech lifts a cube, the opalescent sheen of pure grade gleaming within. “That is the only problem with these events. We are too busy being pretentious to actually make friends.” 

Some of the tension eases out of Sunstreaker's frame. “I noticed.” 

His companion laughs. “It's a shame, really. You are well-spoken for a youngling.” He directs a hand toward himself, affecting a shallow bow. “I am Senator Malus.” 

“Sunstreaker,” he offers, tilting his helm in return. 

Malus laughs again. “Oh, I knew that,” he replies, tones rich with amusement. 

Sunstreaker feels his faceplates flush and hides behind his cube. “Of course you did.” See this right here is why he doesn't socialize. Because he continues to make a fool of himself. 

Malus, however, merely smiles. “You have quite an exquisite design,” he comments, and pulls up a stool, as though quite content to chat with Sunstreaker all night. “Is it your brother's or Nightfall's?”

This is a topic Sunstreaker is very comfortable discussing. He all but beams. “Nightfall's,” he says, some of the embarrassment fading. “But Tracks promised that he'll design my next upframe. With my input, of course.” 

“Of course,” Malus agrees. “I hear you are something of an artist. Frame design as well?” 

Sunstreaker shakes his helm, and relaxed enough, finally indulges in his energon. “No. I understand the general aesthetics but my interest lies more in the display arts.” 

“Ah.” Malus inclines his helm, approval writ into his expression. “A true artist then. What is your favorite medium?” 

“Anything Tracks will let me try.” A tiny grin tugs at Sunstreaker's mouth. “But I like painting the most.” 

“I should have guessed.” Malus lifts a servo, digits brushing Sunstreaker's left finial, but so lightly that it tickles. “You actually have a little here.” 

Embarrassment wells again. He can't believe Dragline left him out of his suite like that! 

He reaches up, trying to find the spot. “What color is it?” 

“Blue.” Malus's amusement flickers in his energy field, tangible now, as though evidence of his relaxed state. “And a bit of red here, too.” His fingers brush Sunstreaker's left cheek-ridge. 

How embarrassing. No wonder mechs have been staring. 

“Sunstreaker!” 

He startles again, whirling at the sound of Tracks all but barking his designation, like he's done something wrong. His brother is approaching them at a fast clip, and though his expression is smoothed over, there's a gleam to his optics that usually only appears when Sunstreaker is in trouble. 

“I'm socializing!” he protests before Tracks can berate him. “I was just talking to--”

“I know,” Tracks says, smoothly sliding between Sunstreaker and Malus, his servo landing on Sunstreaker's shoulder and pulling him back. “But there's a mech I want you to meet.” 

“Now?” Sunstreaker frowns. Tracks is always trying to help him make friends. 

“Yes, now.” The fingers twitch on his shoulder but Tracks isn't looking at him anymore, instead looking at Malus. “Senator, I hope you don't mind that I steal my brother away.” 

“No, of course not.” Malus offers a smile, but there's an edge to it that wasn't present before. 

Sunstreaker's frown deepens, gaze darting between the two mechs. Do they not like each other? Then why would Tracks bother inviting someone he didn't like to his exhibition? Primus, noble politics give him a processor-ache sometimes. 

“There's more high grade. Help yourself,” Tracks offers, steering Sunstreaker away from the senator with not-so-subtle pushes. 

“Thank you.” Malus dips his helm in a respectful bow. “You are, as always, a gracious host.” 

Tracks hurries Sunstreaker away, all but shoving him to the other side of the ballroom. There's an urgency to his emotion that's more than a little alarming. 

“Sunstreaker,” Tracks says in a low tone, his optics distant and sharp. “I want you to stay away from Malus.” 

He cycles his optics in confusion. “What? Why?” 

“Because I said so!” Tracks' vocals hit a sharp note and he pauses, cycling back down. “He is not a good mech.” 

Sunstreaker twists to get a look over his shoulder and finds Malus watching them, that small smile still on his lips. “But he was nice to me.” 

“Nice doesn't mean good. Just trust me, all right?” 

Huffing a ventilation, Sunstreaker crosses his arms over his chassis. 

Tracks' grip on his shoulder tightens, a warning note entering his vocals. “I am serious, Sunstreaker. Please do as I say.” 

“Fine,” he agrees though he doesn't understand why. Malus had been the only one willing to be polite to him at this stupid social. “Can I leave then?” 

Tracks cycles a ventilation, an audible systems check. “I did have someone I wanted you to meet, but if you would rather return to your room, I will not argue.” 

Curiosity wars with disappointment and the memories of all the other times Tracks wanted him to meet someone who was less than impressed. “I want to go back to my room,” Sunstreaker mutters. 

“Very well.” Tracks activates his comm, no doubt summoning Dragline to come get him. “Perhaps I can introduce you to Grapple another time.” 

Sunstreaker tries not to feel guilty at the disappointment in his brother's tone. He tries to keep his indignant anger fresh. But it's hard. He's enough of a burden on Tracks without acting like a spoiled youngling. 

He thinks to apologize but Dragline appears just then, ready to escort him back to his room, and the words die on his glossa.

o0o0o

“Have you thought about what color you want?”

“Yellow,” Sunstreaker says with a nod of his helm. 

A small laugh leaves his brother's vocalizer. “You are already yellow,” Tracks says, tapping his stylus against the transfer pad. “Don't you want to try something new?” 

“No. Yellow.” Sunstreaker leans against the desk, looking up at the rendering of what is to be his first pseudo-adult frame. “And I want five digits with four joints.” 

“All the better for your art, I imagine,” Tracks replies, but his stylus flicks across the pad, adjusting the frame on the holographic display. Long, elegant digits replace the four stubby ones on the original design. 

Sunstreaker smiles in approval. “Can I have a visor?” 

“Why?” 

“So I can cycle through a series of visual acuity.” Sunstreaker has put a lot of thought into this. “I want to be able to approach my ideas through a range of spectrums.” 

Tracks leans back, stylus tapping in hesitation. “Hmm. That might be a bit advanced for your first-frame, Sunny. Maybe your second.” The tip of the stylus scritches across the pad in an idle doodle. “How about I upgrade your visual processing centers instead and we'll see if that suits? You might not like the visor.” 

He ponders the option. “Can I just see what it would look like?” 

Tracks chuckles and makes the changes on the pad, the image shimmering as the pair of blue optics are replaced by an opalescent optical band. 

Sunstreaker tilts his helm. Tracks has a point. The frame doesn't look right with a visor. Frag. Well, it was an interesting idea. 

“You're right,” he concedes. “No band. But my faceplate is too plain.” 

Tracks grins, deleting the band and doodling something else. “Your faceplate is hardly plain, Sunstreaker. It's a perfectly symmetrical design fashioned to reflect your patrician heritage.” 

“It's plain,” Sunstreaker says flatly, crossing his arms over his chassis. 

“I will add something to your helm. Finials perhaps,” Tracks says, conceding at least on this, though not without an element of amusement. 

“No finials.” He hates the ones he has right now. They were fine at first, but he feels he'll still look like a youngling if he keeps them. 

“Sensory suites?” 

“No.” 

“Helm vents?” At this point, Tracks sounds exasperated. The holographic projection itself flickers through the options, almost too fast to register. 

Sunstreaker pauses, considering the vents. He likes the way they frame his face. “They will do,” he declares. 

“At last,” Tracks responds dryly. “Now, let's talk about--”

“ _Excuse me, sir._ ” Windshear's comm cuts through their discussion as the speaker on Tracks' desk beeps an announcement. 

Tracks hits pause on the rendering, temp-saving their work. “What is it, Windshear?” 

“ _Senator Malus is on the main line. He is asking to speak with you._ ” 

Sunstreaker perks, though flattens at the look in his brother's optics. 

“Tell him I am with a client,” Tracks replies, stylus tapping a faster rate on the pad. “I will return his call as soon as I can.” 

“ _I already relayed as much_ ,” Windshear says, and he sounds agitated. “ _He is most insistent that he speak with you_.” 

A sigh gusts from Tracks' vents as he taps something on the datapad, perma-saving their progress. “Very well. Give me a moment and I will take the call in my office.” 

He pulls a spare datapad from his desk and uploads the contents of their work, handing it to Sunstreaker. “Look this over. Add your suggestions. I'll approve or disapprove and we can continue working on it later.” 

Sunstreaker takes the pad, but lifts an orbital ridge. “Do you think it's another merge offer?” His brother has been getting them in droves as of late. He is of bonding age, after all, and who wouldn't want a stake in all that fortune? 

Tracks snorts. “He should be so lucky.” He urges Sunstreaker toward the door. “You shouldn't be talking about merges anyway. Go work on your upframe.” 

“Yes, brother.” He grins, tucking the datapad against his chestplate. “But it would not hurt for you to actually consider these offers rather than decline on principle alone.” 

Tracks rolls his optics and points to the door. “Out, brat. My future bonding is none of your concern.” 

Sunstreaker laughs before he can help himself, but does as Tracks asked, leaving his brother to accept the call. Tracks can be such a prude, sometimes.

o0o0o

Stylus and an open screen. Lines sweeping dark and thin, heavy and light. A bit of shading here, cross-hatching there.

The tip drags across the screen, a _skritch_ of metal on transparent steel. He pauses, contemplates color. Blends shades of blue into a variegating pattern that mimics the night sky, well, at least a sky when Cybertron had a sun. 

Sunstreaker draws a lot of things that don't exist anymore. 

He paints in the drawing room, broad windows giving him an excellent view of Protihex. He likes to try imitating the skyline, the rise and fall of the buildings, the gleam of the Crystal gardens in the distance, white and gleaming. 

The room is filled with paintings, completed, in progress, and abandoned. They line the walls, stacked two or three deep sometimes. Sunstreaker doesn't think they are good enough to attempt to display or sell, but every once in a while, he'll come in and find one or two missing. And not long after, there's an extra deposit in his ornly allotment. 

He knows it is Tracks but Sunstreaker says nothing. He used to get angry because the paintings are his and Tracks has no right to take them and sell them. But Dragline had calmed him down, told him that sometimes Tracks just doesn't know how to talk to him and this is how he shows his faith in Sunstreaker's ability. 

Sunstreaker lets it lie. He shows his gratitude by pretending he doesn't notice the paintings are missing. And even though he abhors being observed while he's creating, he pretends he doesn't notice when Tracks is standing at the back of the room, watching him. 

It's actually kind of nice. It's times like this when they feel like something of a family, rather than the forced facsimile of one that Nightfall tried to create. 

Sunstreaker's stylus wobbles. 

He misses Nightfall desperately sometimes. Tracks tries, and he's doing his best, but he's still Sunstreaker's older brother, and Sunstreaker will never forget the brat Tracks had been back when Nightfall still functioned. To be fair, Tracks has done a complete one-eighty in the wake of their caretaker's accident, when the weight fell most heavily on Tracks' shoulders. Sunstreaker is reminded constantly of this fact. 

It's not Tracks' fault Sunstreaker is a burden. Though he had countless opportunities to give up the extra chain that is Sunstreaker, Tracks hasn't. 

Most mechs would have. Most towerlings would have. Mirage certainly would have, Sunstreaker thinks. 

Tracks had only just upframed to full-adult. No one would have faulted him for admitting he couldn't care for his younger sibling. Especially since Sunstreaker is adopted. 

But he didn't, and Sunstreaker doesn't know what to do with his gratitude or how to even show it. Half the time, he acts like a brat and he knows it. He lashes out, and snaps, and is a general nuisance and he can't even explain why. 

Sunstreaker lowers his stylus completely and stares at the sketch. It is utter slag, not what he wants at all. He wipes the screen before he can convince himself otherwise, and pretends not to notice the surprised ventilation behind him. He is his own worst critic. 

Tracks never asks why Sunstreaker abandons certain projects. And Sunstreaker never offers an explanation of his own accord. 

They don't talk or acknowledge each other, but somehow, Sunstreaker likes these quiet moments of shared time the most.

o0o0o

In retrospect, they should have been prepared for this. But Sunstreaker was too used to other members of nobility disdaining him to consider his own value. Tracks isn't even of the highest caste, but the wealth their caretaker left behind was a thing of worth.

Sunstreaker doesn't remember getting taken, only that he had been out in the garden, sketching, when his world went dark. 

He onlines somewhere he doesn't know, on an unfamiliar berth, surrounded by unfriendly energy fields. His reaction wavers between alarm and surprise and helm-addled confusion. He feels like he's processing at half-speed. 

“Ahhh,” a voice sneers. “The lordling wakes.” 

Susntreaker jerks upright at the disdainful tone, like acid in his audial receptors, and awkwardly scrabbles backward on the berth, away from hostile energy fields. Two strange mechs sit to either side of him, both bulky and obviously military-build, judging by the red of their optics. One has a visor and rotary blades, the other a massive cannon. 

“Recharge well?” the tank asks, but there's no concern in his tone. 

“Who are you?” Sunstreaker demands, if only to hide the fear that's churning his tanks. “Where am I?” He tries his comm and gets nothing. Not a bleep. Not even a burr of static. 

The rotary chuckles, but it lacks humor as much as his companion lacked concern. “Just like a noble. Doesn't know when to keep his mouth shut.” 

“Don't you worry your expensive little helm,” the tank croons. “You'll be out of our possession soon enough. Someone paid good creds for ya.” 

Creds?

Fear clogs Sunstreaker's vocalizer, static spilling from his mouth. “What? But I--”

“Vortex! Brawl!”

Another voice barks into the room, a door on the far side sliding open as an even larger mech strides inside. “Back the frag off!” 

“Slag, Ons, I never touched him,” the rotary says, holding up his servos as if to prove his innocence. “On my honor.” 

“Ya don't got any, Tex.” The tank snickers. 

“Oh, yeah.” The rotary's visor flashes darkly. “Well then, I still didn't do it.” 

'Ons' gives them a flat look, though it is hard to tell considering his face is concealed by both visor and mask. “The client is on his way up. See that he doesn't get lost.” 

“Isn't that Swin's job?” The tank whines, hauling himself to his pedes as though he's dragging weights behind him with every step. 

“Do it.” The command in the tone could not be denied. 

Griping and groaning and jostling each other, the tank and the rotary leave and Sunstreaker is left staring up at the massive mech. A baleful visor looks him over from helm to pede, assessing and dismissing all in the same motion. 

“Relax,” the soldier says. “I'm not going to do anything to a youngling.” 

Fear turns into a bravado Sunstreaker actually doesn't feel. “That didn't stop you from taking me from my home!” He wants to go home, but he suspects that whining such a thing aloud isn't going to help. 

A warrior-grade engine rumbles. “That's business.” The mech stomps to the window, peering out the thin metal-glass. “Are your energon levels satisfactory?” 

Sunstreaker draws his knees up to his chassis, wrapping his arms around them, trying to present a small target. “What?” 

“Are you fueled?” 

“What does it matter to you?” 

“It doesn't.” 

Tension throbs in the room and Sunstreaker's spark skips another helpless beat. He has never been so aware of his own frame, how small he is in comparison, how weak. He has no weapons, has disdained the self-defense classes Tracks tried to get him take an interest in. He is pathetically helpless and there's no one to save him. 

The door chimes. Sunstreaker's optics swing toward it as the door slides open, several mechs striding inside. One, Sunstreaker immediately recognizes, the other three are security detail, going by their weapons, matching paint schemes, and empty expressions. 

“Senator Malus!” Sunstreaker exclaims, optics rounded with surprise. A burst of hope and relief fills his spark.

The senator doesn't look at him, his gaze reserved for the military mech waiting on him, and some of the relief fades in brightness, replaced by unease. 

“You work fast, Commander Onslaught,” the senator says in a pleased tone, energy fields radiating ripe approval. 

He knows the mech. 

Senator Malus _knows_ this mech. 

What remains of Sunstreaker's hope dies in a pit of melted slag. The senator is not here in the intent of rescue. How can he be?

“Yes, well, you paid for that courtesy,” Onslaught replies, angling his frame away from the senator, making no moves to initiate a business-contact. 

Senator Malus chuckles. “I trust he is undamaged?”

“See for yourself. We are professionals.” 

Only then does Malus look at Sunstreaker and suddenly, he wishes that the senator hadn't. He doesn't like the eerie gleam to Malus's optics, the way he looks Sunstreaker over from the tip of his helm to the bottom of his pedes. 

“Not so much as I scratch, I agree,” Malus says, helm nodding as though holding an internal conversation. “Very well done.” 

Onslaught makes a noise, like gears scraping together and a ventilation clogged with debris. “Our fee?” 

“It should already be in your accounts.” 

Malus still hasn't looked away. The unwavering stare is more than unnerving. Sunstreaker backs against the head of the berth, where it latches onto the wall, unsure why he's so uncertain all the sudden. 

“You are quite beautiful,” Malus murmurs, taking a step closer to the berth, as though he's forgotten about every other mech in the room. “Tracks is indeed one of the best frame designers. He's outdone himself on yours.” 

Sunstreaker frowns. “What does this have to do with my brother?” 

Malus chuckles, sweeping a palm over the crown of his helm. “Everything and nothing, my pet.” 

The telltale click of a vocalizer reset echoes in the room. “Will that be all, Senator Malus?” Onslaught asks and if his tone got any flatter, it would be a sheet of metal. 

“Yes, yes. I have no further need of your services.” Malus flicks an impatient servo over his shoulders. 

Onslaught dips his helm in a barely polite bow and leaves without another word. 

“You three, outside,” Malus orders without a glance to his guard. “Sunstreaker and I must chat. Ensure that we are not disturbed.” 

“A chat?” Sunstreaker repeats, his optics tracking the departure of the three security mechs. 

Sunstreaker doesn't have a clue what's going on here, but it can't be good. Mechs don't get taken from their homes for happy reasons. What does Malus want from him? 

“Do you know why you are here?” Malus asks once they are alone, taking several steps closer to the berth, though slowly. Like he's the one who needs to be cautious. 

Sunstreaker twitches, processor bringing up several possibilities but only one of them seems remotely plausible. “Ransom? But you've got more creds than we do so that doesn't make any sense.” 

Malus laughs, a soft and husky sound. “Tracks has certainly kept you locked in that Tower, hasn't he? No, Sunstreaker, I don't need creds. Nor do I want them.” 

“Then why?”

Malus sits on the edge of the berth, his pale blue and ocher paint gleaming in the bright overhead lighting. “If your brother had accepted my offer, things would have turned out quite differently. But Lord Tracks is a stubborn mech.” He pauses, tilting his helm. “This outcome, perhaps, is far more preferable to me.” 

“Offer?” 

“Lord Tracks is a very desirable mech to many Cybertronians,” Malus says, his tone conversational as he slides further down the berth, within touching distance. “He's attractive. Wealthy. Talented. And utterly devoted to his adopted brother.” 

Sunstreaker rolls his optics. “So you got offended? Primus, he rejects everyone. What makes you think you're special?” 

He uncurls his frame, pushing away from Malus and off the berth. There's a weird trill in Malus's energy field and he doesn't like the way it feels when it touches his own. It's unwelcome and uncomfortable and Sunstreaker would really like to go home now. 

A servo snaps out, digits encircling his wrist, stopping him in place. “Because your brother is not as smart as he ought to be. Though he has good instincts.” A thumb digit strokes along the inside of Sunstreaker's wrist. 

He tugs on his hand, but Malus doesn't let him go. “What do you mean?” Sunstreaker asks. 

Malus's vocals dip into a lower register, pulling on Sunstreaker's hand until he's forced to strain the cables in his wrist or move closer to the senator. “You're a bit older than my usual tastes, but for a frame this beautiful, I believe I can adjust.” 

No, Sunstreaker doesn't like the sound of any of this. His energon pump stutters, ventilations missing a cycle. 

“Let me go,” he says, and hates the way he sounds scared and small. Even if that's exactly how he feels. 

Malus's optics drop, watching his own fingers as they stroke Sunstreaker's wrist, his other hand smoothing the inside of Sunstreaker's palm, following the flow of his plating upward. “You've only been a first frame for what, a quarter of a vorn?” 

“So?” Sunstreaker jerks on his wrist again, but Malus's grip has firmed, become unyielding. The weird trill in his energy field has deepened to a grating buzz that scrapes along Sunstreaker's own. 

Malus makes a humming noise, pulling Sunstreaker's servo toward his mouth, ex-venting warmth over his delicate fingers. “You're practically a youngling still, untouched and naïve.” 

Sunstreaker jerks as sensors in his servo light up at the unexpected stimulation, his processor unsure how to translate it. Good? Bad? It doesn't hurt, but is it supposed to feel good?

“Stop that,” he says, and his spark is throbbing so hard that it feels like his chestplate is creaking.

“No, I don't believe I will.” 

Malus tugs and Sunstreaker resists, but the mech is larger, taller, stronger, and another yank sends Sunstreaker tumbling forward. He tilts off his pedes and Malus is there to catch him, pulling Sunstreaker into his lap like Nightfall used to do when he had all those terrible purges about Wirelight and pain and darkness. This is nowhere near as comforting, sending jagged lances of fear through him instead. 

An arm loops around Sunstreaker's waist, pulling his backplate against Malus's chassis. He can feel the rumble of the mech's energy plant, the thrum of his frame. He feels surrounded by that thick, sticky energy field, like he can't ventilate through it. Malus is too warm and Sunstreaker's cooling fans burst to life, struggling to suck in air. 

Malus's helm slides against his, metal scraping over metal, and Sunstreaker hates it because Nightfall used to do that, too, only it didn't feel like this. Wrong and disgusting. Sunstreaker shudders, squirming to get free, but Malus's hold on him only tightens. 

“You are so beautiful,” Malus says, free hand pawing at Sunstreaker's lateral armor, finding the panel that conceals his medical port. “A bond with you would hardly be a chore.” 

A bond?

Sunstreaker thrashes, throwing his helm back. “I don't want a bond!” he shouts, arms flailing, but all he's managing to do is ding and scuff Malus's armor. It doesn't seem to hurt the Senator at all. 

Malus laughs, popping open the panel. “You don't have a choice, Sunny,” he says, foredigit touching the connectors in Sunstreaker's port, electricity crackling over it. 

Sunstreaker goes utterly still, revulsion crawling through his systems. His tanks churn, spark trying to push through his chamber. 

“What are you doing?” 

Malus's digits go away and Sunstreaker thinks of relief, thinks that maybe his demands have gotten through. 

Until the plug sinks into his port with a loud click, an alien presence battling at Sunstreaker's systems. It's a weird sensation, one he can't describe, only knowing that Malus doesn't feel comforting like Nightfall had or clinical like Steadfast. He doesn't ask permission, only batters through Sunstreaker's firewalls as though they are crafted from air and not the finest Tracks' creds can buy. 

“Stop!” 

Malus ignores him. 

Sunstreaker can feel the senator rifling through his processor, through his coding, like he's looking for something. He's poking and prodding, an alien presence with alien thoughts and alien emotions that aren't Sunstreaker's. 

Satisfaction and pleasure, amusement and glee. 

Sunstreaker whimpers, desperately sucking air into his vents. He feels like he's overheating, and he can feel Malus's ventilations against his helm, the energy field like a thick blanket keeping him still. 

“I will enjoy breaking you,” Malus says, vocals barely above a murmur. “Though I only have time right now for a taste.”

The arm around his midsection creeps upward, fingers scraping across Sunstreaker's chestplate and the invisible seam protecting his spark. Terror lances through him. 

“No!” 

There's a sound. A shout. 

Sunstreaker thrashes as Malus's grip on him tightens. There's a smell of scorched metal and a blur of colors. Pain courses from Malus' side of the connection. 

Malus falls and Sunstreaker falls with him. The cord is yanked from his port, connectors sparking angry charge. 

Sunstreaker scrabbles, on servos and knees, trying to crawl out from under Malus's bulk. The floor vibrates, the noise of a dozen angry pedes, and then Malus's weight is gone. Sunstreaker lurches forward on unsteady limbs until another mech grabs him. 

He shouts, flailing, words crashing against his audials. An energy field washes over him, pulsing warmth and soothing waves of calm. There's even more shouting, the sound of metal scrabbling, but it slowly fades. 

“Shh,” says a mech, servos gentle but firm, and Sunstreaker cycles his optics, blurry vision still giving him sweeps of color and light and things unfamiliar. “It is all right, Sunstreaker. You are safe now.” 

“Prove it!” 

He's shaking. He can feel it in his limbs, the rattle of his plating, heat and cold flushing through him all at once. He resets his optics again and again, the blur firming into black and white and blue. 

Blue optics. Black and white paint. A slash of a grey chevron. Sensory panels. 

Praxian, Sunstreaker's addled processor informs him. The mech is Praxian, not Malus or one of his security detail. 

“I am going to set you down now,” the Praxian says, still in that calm and even tone. “I apologize for grabbing you, but I did not wish to see you further harmed.” 

And then he actually does. Sunstreaker feels himself lowered, feels floor beneath his pedes, and he wobbles, standing upright. That he is a little over half the Praxian's height is more apparent when he has to look up, except that the Enforcer kneels to put them on a more even level. 

“Is that better?” he asks. 

Sunstreaker folds his arms around his chassis, looking all around him. This is not the same room he was in earlier. It's smaller and quieter. There's no sign of the Senator, but there is another Enforcer by the door, not Praxian but still displaying the familiar sigil of the Enforcer corps. 

Another shiver wracks Sunstreaker's frame. He feels cold and his connector aches. He twists to look down, watching as sparks spit from the frayed port. He sways on his pedes, processor glitching. 

“Sunstreaker?” 

“I want to go home,” he blurts out, curling into himself, arms locked around his frame. He aches from helm to pede and he can still feel Malus slithering about inside him like a virus. 

The Enforcer's energy field pulses with sympathy but Sunstreaker flinches back. It scrapes against his own, unwelcome like Malus' and wisely, the Enforcer clamps it down. 

“I apologize,” he murmurs, for the second time. “Your brother is on his way already. He should be here shortly.” 

Sunstreaker stares at the floor. The swirling lines of color are hypnotizing, a blur to his optics. He can feel the weight of an interrupted upload in his cortex, waiting for the rest of the data, half-finished alterations itching and throwing errors at him. 

He shivers, legs wobbling. 

“Sunstreaker?” 

His vision swims in and out of focus. His ventilations come sharp and panicked and he can't seem to get them under control. His digits draw into fists, knees buckling and Sunstreaker feels himself falling from a distance. His helm aches like the time he fell down the stairs and cracked an equilibrium sensor. 

His tanks churn and Sunstreaker doubles over. “Something's wrong,” he says, or tries to say. It comes out a static-laden series of unintelligible syllables. “Something is...” His vocalizer locks up. 

Someone shouts. He hears the words, muffled as they are, and then his chestplates twitch. Horror floods through Sunstreaker, his servos scrambling for his chassis, trying to hold himself together. His spark feels too big, too bright. He can't possibly keep it contained. 

There's yelling. Servos on his plating. Digits prod at his damaged medical port and Sunstreaker hisses in pain, the sharpness of it a brief spark in the darkness. It's not enough, like so much in his functioning isn't, and Sunstreaker never feels himself hit the floor. 

Awareness is a blur. 

He feels, dimly, mechs touching him. He wants to fight back, to resist, thinking Malus has returned to finish what he started, but Sunstreaker's frame isn't obeying him. His servos won't respond, his pedes are made of stone, and his vocalizer has glitched. 

Pain interrupts a strange lack of sensation, quick and sharp, with a lingering throb he can't ignore. He hears voices, but the words are indistinct. Energy fields vibrate against his own, one frazzled and terrified, one calm and composed, a third focused and confident. 

“--attempted to reprogram--”

“--possible viral upload--”

“--as soon as you are able--”

Words wash in and out of Sunstreaker's audials. He doesn't know who's speaking them or why. His optics are on but he can't see a thing. He's cold, plating rattling from the inside out, and he can't seem to get his cooling fans to shut down. 

Color and sound swirl together. Haptic sensors misfire, one after the other, cold and heat intermingling. Something sifts through his systems, less invasive than Malus' blunt force attempt, but no less unwelcome. Sunstreaker's too tired to fight back, can do nothing more than silently watch. 

The nagging, itching feeling of an incomplete upload starts to lift. His processor no longer feels heavy and clogged, but lighter, as though he can think again. He tries to move his servo, check his chestplate and his frantically pulsing spark, but he still can't access his motor functions.

The dark returns, swamping over his processor, and Sunstreaker is reminded of pain, so much pain. His spark constricting and expanding, his frame bucking, the worried blue optics of a mech he only half-remembers. 

Wirelight!

Grey on the edges. His processor struggles to compute, parcels of thought clawing upward, fighting for coherence. The pain dulls to a throb, then an echo. The memory recedes. 

His left servo is warm. There's a tangible weight resting across his palms and digits. Sunstreaker stirs from the darkness, emerging into a brightly lit room, a soft berth beneath him. He cycles his optics in wake of the brightness, surrounded by unfamiliarity. 

His servo is still warm. 

Sunstreaker turns his helm, optics tracking down the length of his arm to his servo, his digits currently clasped by another set. He follows that arm to find Tracks sitting by his berth, slumped in a chair, his helm tilted at an odd angle in his recharge. 

Judging by the equipment, the white walls, the odd silence, Sunstreaker can only assume he's in a medical center. He gropes at his chestplate with his free servo, relieved to find that it hasn't cracked open. And then, steeling himself, he touches a digit to his medical port. Relief leaves him in a whoosh; it has been repaired. 

The physical evidence is gone. All that remains are the memories. 

Tracks stirs and Sunstreaker's optics shift back to his brother, watching as Tracks' optics flicker and then online. He cycles them a few times before noticing that Sunstreaker is awake, jerking upright. 

“Sunstreaker,” he says, leaning forward, second servo clasping over his first. “How are you feeling?” 

He doesn't think there's a word to describe his emotional state. Sunstreaker searches his database and comes up short. Better, he thinks, to ignore the question altogether. 

“Are we in Crystal City?”

Tracks releases a long ventilation. “Yes,” he says, digits rubbing gently over Sunstreaker's own. “Are you in any pain?” 

He takes a moment to consider, peering at his HUD, before he answered. “No.” 

“Good.” Tracks' optics flick away, focusing on the end of the berth. “Do you... remember anything?” 

Sunstreaker's optics shutter, a small tremble wracking his frame. It's another question he doesn't want to answer. “How did I get here?” 

“I believe I can answer that.” 

His optics snap open, gaze whipping to the doorway where a familiar Enforcer is entering, a green mech wearing a medic's brand following behind. 

“Prowl,” Tracks greets, though he makes no move to stand. “I thought your shift had ended.” 

“I still have some paperwork that needs completion,” the Enforcer answers and his warm gaze turns to Sunstreaker. “I am glad to find that you have been well-repaired, Sunstreaker.” 

Sunstreaker squirms, shifting his optics away. “Thank you.” 

The medic edges out from behind Prowl, approaching the other side of Sunstreaker's berth, between the equipment and the wall. “I am Hoist,” he says with a smile and a soft ripple of his energy field. “I am the medic assigned to your care.” 

“He is doing a great job,” Tracks says, squeezing Sunstreaker's servo. “He fixed you in record time and even touched up your paint.” 

It feels false, empty. Their smiles and their soft tones and the gentle way they treat him. Granted, Sunstreaker feels as brittle as a rust stick but this only makes him feel more so. It's like they are all tiptoeing around the Empty in the corner, trying not to stir the ravenous beast. 

“What happened to me?” Sunstreaker demands, and only belatedly notices that he's spoken over Prowl. All optics draw his way and Sunstreaker fights the urge to squirm, his spark quailing in his compartment. “I mean... I just...” 

Tracks sighs and seems to sink further in his chair. “It's my fault.” 

“It is not,” Prowl says and his tone is firm, invoking no argument. “You are not the one to blame for the senator's proclivities nor his actions.” 

“I knew,” Tracks insists, digits flexing as his voice grows in volume. “I should have been prepared for something like this to happen. Arranged for better protection, rejected him sooner. Something.” 

Sunstreaker pushes himself upright, and startles when Hoist rests a servo on his arm, helping him sit. The medic offers an apologetic smile, withdrawing his touch. 

“I apologize,” Hoist says, his optics softening. “I only meant to help. Do you mind if I access your systems? I would like to complete my final check.” 

Sunstreaker presses against the berth, away from the offered cable. “Check for what?” 

Tracks mutters a curse subvocally, his energy field rippling with guilt and disgust, neither of which are directed at Sunstreaker. 

“He has a right to know,” Hoist says. 

“He's only a first frame, practically a youngling still!” Tracks snaps, anger sifting through the guilt. “Do you intend to make it worse?” 

“Concealing the truth will not help matters. How is he to heal if he does not know the dangers?” Prowl says. 

“And how is he supposed to feel safe carrying that knowledge?” 

“I want to know,” Sunstreaker insists, raising his vocals to be heard, feeling forgotten in the wake of the three adults and their discussion. “And I'm not a youngling anymore, Tracks! That was a vorn ago!” 

Silence. Sunstreaker's vents are heaving as though he's just sprinted down the halls of the manor, chasing after a rogue cleaning drone again. Tracks fidgets, Hoist pretends to study a piece of equipment and Prowl waits, his optics focused on Sunstreaker's brother. 

A deep in-vent echoes in the room and Tracks sits up, both servos clasping Sunstreaker's own. “Sunny,” he says, and visibly hesitates, faceplate losing heat. “Malus was trying to force a bond with you.” 

Coldness seeps into Sunstreaker's spark. “A bond?” He works his intakes, a rattle rippling across his plating. “Why?” 

“Because I wouldn't accept his proposal on my behalf or yours.” Tracks' gaze falls to the berth lining, as though he can't bear to meet Sunstreaker's optics. “It is a little advertised but understood fact that Malus has certain tastes. Aware of that, I refused every offer he made, but he is not a mech used to taking no for an answer.” 

Hoist makes a noise, one Sunstreaker can't decipher, but he says nothing, still busily investigating his equipment. 

It still doesn't make much sense to Sunstreaker. Malus hardly needed Tracks' wealth. He was easily worth three times as much as their family. And there are better positioned, higher-ranked nobles to be found in the Towers. 

“I don't understand,” Sunstreaker says and knows he's upset his brother because Tracks flinches, his energy field flushing a sickly guilt. “Why—?”

“Because Clarity had already refused him, he failed to acquire Synergy, and you were a safer target,” Prowl says, when it is obvious Tracks cannot find the words. “Malus assumed that once the bond was completed, there would be nothing any mech could do.” 

Sunstreaker feels sick. His tanks roil, clenching on nothing. He presses his free hand to his chestplate, feeling his spark surge and churn beneath the metal, thicker than it used to be but still so very vulnerable. 

He'd been that close to losing everything, losing himself. 

He closes his optics, tries to find his balance again. It feels like he's falling even though he's sitting up on a berth. He's falling and there's nothing to catch him, nothing and no one. 

“Sunstreaker.”

It takes more effort than it should for him to lift his gaze to Prowl, who has moved closer, his chassis shining in the bright medbay lighting, his Enforcer crest stark and gleaming. 

“You have nothing to fear,” Prowl says, and presses a servo to his own chestplate, over his spark, palm flat. “Malus has been arrested. He will not hurt you again.” 

The sickness doesn't go away. It surges and grows and the room is too small, there are too many mechs, and their energy fields grate against his own. 

Sunstreaker curls into himself, servo still over his own spark. “I want to be alone.” 

“I don't think--”

“Your systems are still in need of some rest,” Hoist says, before Tracks can finish whatever he intends to say. “Perhaps after a bit of recharge, you will be one hundred percent.” 

Sunstreaker makes a non-committal noise. He just wants them all to go away. He wants to think without their words crowding him, their guilt and their comfort and their empty promises. 

He turns on his side, servo slipping from Tracks' hold, facing the wall. 

Tracks, of course, protests. “But--”

“He needs time,” Hoist says, voice quiet but not so much that Sunstreaker can't hear him. “Do not push, Lord Tracks.”

“It is just as well. I need to speak with you in private,” Prowl adds, and Sunstreaker watches their shadows on the wall, the medic and the Enforcer ushering his brother from the room. 

“Fine,” Tracks acquiesces. “I will be back as soon as I can, Sunny. Rest well.” 

And then he, too, is gone. The silence wraps around Sunstreaker like a mesh blanket, all consuming. There's a steady beep from the machines surrounding him. One arm is uncomfortably warm, from whatever is being injected into his lines. 

His processor is clean and clear, unburdened by an unwelcome upload. His neural pathways itch with an imagined presence. He can still feel Malus within him. He doesn't want to close his optics. 

Nothing's going to be the same ever again.

o0o0o

He scrubs and he can't get clean. The cleanser scalds, pelting upon his sensitive plating, stripping away paint, but it doesn't help.

Dragline forces him out of the showers more than once, tutting over the streaks in Sunstreaker's paint, the places where protoform-grey shows beneath gold. 

Tracks eventually locks him out, won't let him scrub unsupervised anymore. Sunstreaker feels like a sparkling and he argues with his brother about it. Tracks does not relent, only giving him that pitying, understanding look. 

Sunstreaker hates it. 

He hates the recharge purges more. He used to purge memories of pain and darkness and a mech named Wirelight. 

Now, his cycles are interrupted by Malus. 

His voice. His touch. His faceplate. His cables. His vents. 

Sunstreaker hasn't had a full defrag cycle since... since then. 

He ignores the inhibitor chips Hoist left for him, too. He can't really explain why except that he doesn't want to feel that helpless ever again and he doesn't know what effect the chip will have. He doesn't want to be so deep into recharge that he can't defend himself. 

He hasn't been to his studio since either. It's pointless. He can only see shades of grey, flat edges, empty skies. His digits don't twitch. The blank datascreen stares at him, mocking him for his lack of talent. 

Far better to let the studio get covered in dust. 

So he wanders. Back and forth through the halls of the manor. He doesn't stray from the reach of Tracks' comm or that of Dragline's and Windshear's. He only drinks energon if Tracks brings it to him. He doesn't go outside anymore. 

Nothing is the same and he doesn't know how to make it right again. 

Tracks is stumped. 

He tries, in his own way, but it's not enough or maybe too much. 

Sunstreaker misses Nightfall terribly. His caretaker would have known what to do, how to fix this mess. He probably would have never let it happen in the first place. 

Diun pass with no improvement. 

Sunsreaker withdraws. He doesn't go to galas. He doesn't attend dignitary functions. His art supplies collect dust. 

He onlines before fully cycling down with screams caught in his vocalizer and venting frantic bursts. Terror claws at him, inside and out. 

His beautiful frame is a disgrace. 

He can't do this. Something has to give before he breaks.

o0o0o

He can't stand the way Tracks looks at him anymore. Optics filled with pity, energy field flat and carefully contained. Tracks looks at him like he's broken and Sunstreaker wishes he could argue different.

“I wish you'd let me help you,” Tracks whispers, one orn when he thinks Sunstreaker isn't listening. 

He's supposed to be in recharge but Sunstreaker fakes it most of the time. He doesn't like to recharge. He doesn't want to shut down. 

Sunstreaker can't think of anything that'll help. 

“The Trading Post received a new shipment of paints today,” Tracks says on another morning, stormy with acid rain, preventing them from leaving the Tower. “I thought we could go look at them when the rain stops. Reverb tells me there's a dozen new shades.” 

Curled in the windowseat, Sunstreaker watches the acid drip from the skies, sheeting down the window, pooling in the gutters and empty streets. “No, thank you.” 

Tracks sighs a ventilation and sits on the edge of the seat, within touching distance though he doesn't reach out. “The Prime Exhibition is in a quartrex. Pre-sales start tomorrow. I can get us tickets.” 

“You can go.” 

Sunstreaker, however, has no intention of leaving anytime soon. 

Frustration bleeds into Tracks' energy field before he can restrain it and Sunstreaker withholds his own wince. 

_Burden_ , that voice whispers at him. He doesn't have the strength to bat it away. 

Tracks scrubs a servo over his helm, slumping where he sits. “Sunny, I'm worried about you,” he says. “This isn't healthy.” 

Sunstreaker has no response for that. He hasn't the words for several vorns now. 

“There's a mech,” Tracks continues when the silence stretches heavy and aching between them. “A medic. His designation is Rung. He's a processor specialist. I think you should--”

“No,” Sunstreaker says before Tracks can finish because he knows where Tracks is going with this and he's not going there. He's not going to let some medic mess around in his helm. 

“He can help you, Sunny,” Tracks insists, frustration coloring his field a sickly edge. “You won't talk to me but you need to talk to someone. You can't keep on like this.” 

Sunstreaker folds his arms over his drawn up knees, resting his chin upon them. Maybe, if he keeps himself quiet, he'll disappear. 

Tracks sighs another ventilation. “Sunny...” 

Nothing. No words. No answers. 

It's no surprise when Tracks gets up and leaves a few breems later, his energy field hanging off his frame like a lead weight of disappointment. And then Sunstreaker has guilt to add to the shame filling up his spark. He's starting to run out of room.

o0o0o

He onlines with his spark racing, his vents heaving, and his systems scrolling errors at him. He's too hot, too charged, and the darkness overwhelms him. He's small, tiny, and far too easily overpowered.

He'll never be safe so long as he can't defend himself. 

“I want to upframe,” Sunstreaker announces the next time Tracks brings him a cube of energon. His vocalizer sounds hoarse, he uses it so rarely. 

Tracks cycles his optics in surprise. “You've been a first-frame for a vorn. You've centuries until an upframe is necessary, much less recommended.” 

Sunstreaker folds his digits around the cube. “I want to upframe,” he repeats, because he's sure it's the only way. 

“Sunny.” Tracks sighs and lowers himself down until he can meet Sunstreaker's optics. “I don't think--”

“I want to upframe,” he repeats, and there's a waver in his vocalizer that betrays the tremble wracking his frame. “And I want to learn Circuit-su. Or metallikato. Or crystalocution. Or Diffusion.” He stops, sucking in a ragged vent. 

Tracks' mouthplates compress into a thin line. “It won't be comfortable,” he explains quietly. 

It can't be any worse, Sunstreaker thinks. 

He looks up at his brother, fatigue lining every corner of his energy field. “Please. I want... I need...” Sunstreaker hunches, unable to verbalize himself. 

A moment of silence, think and tangible, falls between them. 

Finally, Tracks releases a defeated ex-vent. “All right. I'll start work on a design immediately. And find you an instructor. Do you have any ideas regarding your upframe?”

Sunstreaker curls into himself. “I want to be strong,” he says, spark pushing a hesitant beat within him. “And fast.” 

“And yellow?” Tracks says, but the tease falls flat. Once, it might have garnered a laugh. 

Tracks' expression morphs into something unreadable as he rises back to his pedes. “Drink your energon, Sunny,” he says, pressing a kiss to Sunstreaker's helm. “It's going to be okay.” 

He's been promising that since the incident. It hasn't come true yet.

o0o0o

He and Tracks are of a height now, but Sunstreaker is bulkier. The light armor is heavier still than the plating from his first-frame, but Sunstreaker likes the extra weight. It feels like strength and protection. His subspace pocket is bigger, too.

He won't be small anymore. All that remains to ease is the helplessness. 

There's a strange sense of not-belonging that lingers, like Tracks said. It's a bit uncomfortable, like he doesn't quite fit, but it's better, far better, than the weakness. 

Sunstreaker admires himself in the mirror. Yellow-gold armor gleams in the lighting, perfectly polished. Helm vents frame his face, a carryover from his first frame. He's tall and sturdy now, with servos that are strong and capable. 

Tracks had looked so sad when Sunstreaker vetoed his previous articulated design. But his old servos were too delicate. They wouldn't stand up against any use of force. 

Tracks had argued that Sunstreaker wouldn't need to use force. 

But Tracks didn't have purges of Malus haunting his recharge. He wouldn't and can't understand. Sunstreaker doesn't bother to help him try. 

His door pings. 

Excitement mingles with dread. Tracks hadn't said who he hired to train Sunstreaker, but he is assured that his brother wouldn't select someone untrustworthy. And despite Tracks' reluctance, Sunstreaker has gone ahead and downloaded all he can about Circuit-su into his processor. He knows the mechanics but a practical instruction will ensure he doesn't hurt himself applying them. 

“Master Sunstreaker?” 

“Coming!” 

He gives himself a critical look once more in the mirror but can't see any imperfections. At least, not on the outside. 

Satisfied, Sunstreaker steps out into the receiving room, only to cycle his optics in surprise at who's waiting for him. 

“P-Prowl!?”

The Enforcer – or wait, the identifying crest is gone – offers him a soft smile. “Hello, Sunstreaker. You're looking much larger than I remember.” 

“I've upframed,” he says, and struggles to regain his composure. “What are you doing here?” 

Prowl gives Sunstreaker's frame an assessing glance. “I understand you need a circuit-su instructor. It so happens that I am an alpha-class in that discipline.” 

“But...” Sunstreaker frowns, crossing his chassis. “Why would you have time? Are you not an Enforcer any longer?” 

A soft vent escapes Prowl. “That, I believe, is a story too long to tell. You wish to learn, after all. And I can teach you.” 

There's more to this, Sunstreaker realizes. But judging by Prowl's expression, maybe the former-Enforcer just doesn't want to talk about it. 

“All right,” Sunstreaker says, relaxing fully. At least Tracks had found a mech he could trust. “I am a willing student.” 

Prowl's sensory panels drift downward, displaying his own laxing tension. “And I am a willing instructor.” He gestures for Sunstreaker to come closer. “Sit. Let's discuss what you know already so I know where to begin.”

o0o0o

“Tracks?”

Sitting behind his desk, his brother looks quite distracted. There's an array of datapads, some stacked two or three high, and an empty decanter of mid-grade, spiced with magnesium, proof that Tracks has been working for some time. 

“Hmm?” 

Sunstreaker pulls up a chair, sliding into it. He probably shouldn't bother Tracks right now but the curiosity has been gnawing on his processor for the last diun and he has to know. Something about it feels necessary to know. 

“Why were you able to hire Prowl?” 

There's a long pause before Tracks puts down his stylus and sits back in his chair, rubbing his faceplate. “Because he was suspended from active duty pending the results of an investigation.” 

“Pending?” 

Tracks scowls, his lipplates pressing together in a thin, disapproving line. “It's a pretense. They have no intention of re-commissioning him.” 

An uncertain feeling begins to coil in Sunstreaker's tanks. “Why?” 

Venting softly, Tracks rubs his faceplate again. “Because Prowl is good at what he does and there are some who do not appreciate his dedication to his duty.” 

Sunstreaker frowns. “That doesn't make any sense.” 

“Not much does anymore, Sunstreaker.” Tracks reaches out, fiddling with one of his datapads again. Despite the energon, his optics are dim, his energy field heavy with fatigue. 

How long has he been working this hard?

“When it comes to power,” Tracks continues, “some of us have it and some of us don't.” His faceplates shift, dark with anger. “Senator Malus has more power than any of us.” 

Understanding trickles over Sunstreaker like an ice cold bath. “He was fired... because of me?” His servos scrub over his thigh plating. 

“No.” Tracks leans forward, bracing his elbows on his desk, shoulders slumped. “He was too close to the truth and he refused to ignore it. He wanted Senator Malus to be imprisoned.” 

And someone, most likely Malus himself, had Prowl dismissed instead. Because he's a senator and important and Sunstreaker is just the adopted sparkling of a frame-designer, wealthy but far from influential. 

Sunstreaker sags, spark constricted into a tight band within his chassis. “I...” 

“I'm sorry I didn't tell you.” Tracks' gaze dips down, as though focusing on his datapads is the easier course. “But you had enough to worry about.” 

He presses his servo to his chestplate, that old pain returning with a vengeance, an ache in his spark that never fades. “So he got away with it. He's not even sorry. He'll probably do it again, if he hasn't already.” 

“Yes,” Tracks admits and the fatigue in his tone is even more evident now, though he lifts his optics back to Sunstreaker. “But I swear, he's not coming near you again.” 

It's not a consolation. Not at all. 

What does it matter? If it's not Sunstreaker, it'll be some other mech. Probably a commoner with even less protection than Tracks has to offer. 

Sunstreaker's tanks churn. He rises to his pedes, disgust like a thick web through his systems. 

“Sunstreaker?” 

He shakes his helm, turning toward the door, servos forming fists at his side. He needs to train, work harder at his lessons. He needs to master Circuit-su as soon as possible and move into another discipline. 

His safety has only ever been an illusion.

o0o0o

Sunstreaker trains.

He spends every online moment in the practice room until every motion becomes second nature to him. Until he can slide from one position to the next with instinctual smoothness. 

Prowl doesn't only know circuit-su. He's fairly skilled with weaponry, too. He shows Sunstreaker how to fight with bladed weapons and how to use artillery. He's a fair shot with a blaster, though he won't be winning any tournaments. 

Getting strong is the only thing that matters to Sunstreaker. 

He tries not to notice how disappointed Tracks looks. 

And he doesn't miss the madness that has somehow infected Cybertron the whole planet over. 

Riots in Kaon. Building collapses in Tarn. Energon shortages. Mass desertions from the army and even larger groups of mechs leaving Cybertron in mass exodus. 

Talk, talk, talk. The airwaves are full of it. Grumbling in the streets and over the net. Socials are rife with simmering tension, the few that Sunstreaker attends, and Tracks' commissions start to dry up. No one wants sparklings anymore, not that it matters. The Senate has put the Allspark on lockdown. 

And in the midst of it all, Sentinel Prime abandons his post. Abandons Cybertron when it is most in need of a leader. 

Little pockets of rebellion are rising everywhere, from Slaughter City to the gleaming gardens of Praxus. No one is happy. Everyone is hungry. Dissent ripples across the planet's surface in an encompassing wave. 

“They call themselves the Decepticons,” Tracks says, disgust thick in his tone. 

“What do they want?” 

“Freedom. Equality. Or so they claim.” Tracks' servo makes a broad sweep over Sunstreaker's dorsal plating, wax swirling a fine polish over his armor. “But they seem more interested in chaos to me. 

Equality. Sunstreaker contemplates. 

“Maybe they're tired of being energy-starved. And cold.” His faceplates shift into a scowl. “Maybe they hate the Prime that's failed them.” 

Sunstreaker can relate. Malus is out there, cheerfully existing in his freedom, with no care for the purges or the stain he's left on Sunstreaker's functioning. 

Tracks sighs a ventilation. “Maybe. But it doesn't matter.” He picks up another cloth, smoothing the wax into a fine sheen. “The Enforcers will stop them soon enough.” 

Tracks is wrong. 

The Enforcers try but they are too few and the angry commoners, workers, laborers, and soldiers too numerous. 

The riots increase as energon gets more and more scarce. 

And then, the unthinkable. 

Someone makes a mistake, the uneasy balance shatters, and Tarn suffers for that weakness. 

It is a smoking heap. There are few survivors and any chance for peaceful resolution drains away like stripped paint. 

The Decepticons blame the High Council, claiming it was a heavy-handed attempt to put down the rebellion. 

The Senate and the Council claim that the Decepticons are at fault, trying to sow dissension and fear through Cybertron. 

Without a Prime to lead them, and Primus a silent deity, there's no one to mediate, no one to slow the fierce rush to war. 

Neither side bends. Both sides are lying. And the violence continues to erupt. 

Sunstreaker doesn't know what to believe. 

“We're Neutral,” Tracks tells him. “We're going to stay out of it. That's the only safe option to be had.” 

Sympathizers to either debate are being harassed and attacked. The Decepticons wear their allegiance proudly, purple sigils stamped on their chestplates--or their wings, as many of the Vosian Seekers are flooding the cause. 

“It won't last,” Sunstreaker replies, his optics fixed on the vidscreen, watching clip after clip of violence and misery and anger. 

Tracks isn't so pessimistic. “Neither will the Decepticons.” 

Sunstreaker, however, isn't so sure.

o0o0o

One orn, Windshear isn't there.

He’s left in the middle of the dark cycle without so much as a note or a word, abandoning a job he has held for most of his functioning. 

Dragline tells them he's returned to Vos, looking for his hatchmates. That he's been talking about the Decepticons for diun but only where Tracks and Sunstreaker couldn't hear. 

_Are you going to leave us, too?_ Sunstreaker wants to ask, but he doesn't. He already knows the answer. He can see it in the firm set of Dragline's mouthplates. 

Whatever promises the Decepticons have made, they are more alluring than the eons Dragline has spent working for their Tower. 

Tracks is the only one surprised when, several diun later, Dragline vanishes, too. That it coincides with the Senate-sanctioned bombing of Tarn isn't lost on Sunstreaker. 

Millions of flight-build mechs, offline in the streets, their homes turned to husks, their livelihoods ash. Sparklings and younglings and adults alike, all offline. 

The backlash is terrible, violent, fear rippling through Cybertron like an infectious virus. An invisible line is drawn, Decepticons on one side, the Senate and the High Council and the Enforcers on the other. Neutrals, made of civilians and workers and nobles and laborers and soldiers alike, dance the great divide, wanting no part of the hostility. 

It's an uneasy existence. Sunstreaker trains harder. 

Uraya falls, vengeance for Tarn. 

There's no such thing as a routine anymore. 

Mechs fight in the streets over the tiniest scrap of energon. The shops close up. No one's requesting sparklings anymore. 

Invitations for galas appear in Tracks' inbox on a weekly basis. It's enough to make Sunstreaker's tanks churn. How can they think about celebrating at a time like this? How can they party and laugh and have fun when Cybertron is tearing itself apart?

Tracks turns them down. He's too busy poring through their finances, trying to find stability on a planet bereft of it. He keeps saying that everything is going to be fine, and Sunstreaker wonders if his brother actually believes it.

o0o0o

He's in the middle of a routine when Tracks comes striding into the training room, his energy field peppered with a mix of excitement, relief, and dread, a nauseating melange of emotions.

Sunstreaker finishes and turns toward his brother, snagging a towel from a rack to wick the condensation off his frame. “Something happen?” he asks. 

“We have to go to Iacon,” Tracks says, his optics assessing Sunstreaker's frame. “We need to leave in a breem.” 

Sunstreaker frowns. “So soon? Why?” 

“A new Prime's been chosen,” Tracks answers and his energy field gives another anxiety-driven ripple. “They've asked me to design his reformat.” 

Confusion and surprise echo through Sunstreaker. “A new Prime?” 

Tracks shakes his helm. “They wouldn't tell me much, but this is an opportunity I cannot let lie. Our inheritance is not unlimited.” 

In other words, they are going broke and if things continue as they are, it will not be long before Tracks and Sunstreaker find themselves in the same crashing transport as everyone else, scrabbling for a scrap of energon in the streets. 

It should be a great honor that Tracks has been offered this, but it stinks of desperation to Sunstreaker. He doesn't like it. But he also knows that Tracks is right. They cannot afford to turn it down. 

“Will we get to meet him?” Sunstreaker asks as he falls into step beside his brother, Tracks' pace hurried and near-frantic. “The new Prime?”

Tracks huffs a ventilation. “I doubt it. We're not that high-ranked, Sunstreaker.” 

“But you can't design a frame without knowing what he wants.” 

Tracks gives Sunstreaker a long look, something inexplicable in his energy field. “I don't think the new Prime has much of a choice. The Council is signing off on the design.” 

“That's slag,” Sunstreaker says, disgust winding through his field. “You can't put a spark into a frame it doesn't like.” He's not a frame-designer, but even he knows that much. Otherwise, you run the risk of the spark rejecting the chamber at first transfer, or worse, upon reboot, an input-output disconnect between the spark and its frame. 

Sunstreaker's never seen it himself, but he's heard the stories from both Tracks and Nightfall before his offlining. Mechs go crazy, go glitched, when put into ill-fitting frames. 

His brother ventilates a long cycle. “The Council seems to think that won't be an issue.” His frown deepens. “The Matrix has its own plan.” 

“Matrix?” 

Tracks shakes his helm. “That's all they would tell me.” His lips form a thin line of disapproval. “Come on. We don't have much time.” 

Sunstreaker doesn't like the sound of any of this, but Tracks is right. He desperately needs the commission. They both do if they plan to survive.

Frag this war.

o0o0o

“You are doing well,” Prowl says, his voice carrying through the room with a soft echo.

It's getting emptier and emptier in here. In the whole manor, truth be told. With no commissions flooding in, creds are getting tight. Energon is pricier and there are images to uphold. Better to sell a few useless artifacts. 

Sunstreaker slides from one kata to the next, feeling the fluid shift in his motor cables, the motion as natural to him as venting. He's no master, not yet, but he's definitely on the right path to becoming one. 

“Thank you,” he says, focusing intently on his efforts. 

It helps. In the dark of night cycle when Sunstreaker lies online and stares at his ceiling, purges creeping at him from the shadows, the focus helps. He can ventilate, slow and steady, hear Prowl's voice in the back of his mind, like a soothing cadence. 

He's not weak. Not anymore. And he has Prowl to thank for that. 

“There is very little I have left to teach you,” Prowl continues, pacing in a slow circle around Sunstreaker, optics scrutinizing every flex of cabling and shift of plating. “Which is fortunate, all things considered.” 

Sunstreaker pauses, mid-shift. “Fortunate?” 

“Finish your routine,” Prowl says and Sunstreaker obeys before he fully processes the order. “I have been given an opportunity that I cannot refuse. It means, however, that I will be unable to continue your lessons.” 

“What kind of opportunity?” Sunstreaker asks, though he does not allow himself to be distracted from his routine. If anything, Circuit-su has given him a great deal of focus. 

“Excellent form,” Prowl praised and Sunstreaker felt the warmth building within him. “The new Prime is in need of a tactician.”

Sunstreaker caught himself from startling this time. “He asked for you specifically?” 

“So I am told.”

Sunstreaker finished the last of his routine, condensation gathered on his frame, but otherwise he was unwinded. He turned toward Prowl, dipping his upper frame into a respectful bow, which Prowl returned, master to student. 

“This will be our last lesson,” Prowl said as he straightened, sensory panels flicking into their usual position against his backplate. “You have been an excellent student, Sunstreaker. I hope that you continue your training.” 

“Thank you.” Sunstreaker cycles a ventilation, shifting uneasily. “Are you certain this Prime is worth following?” 

Prowl inclines his helm, doing Sunstreaker the courtesy of at least considering the question as opposed to dismissing him. “I can not be certain of anything anymore,” he says and he clasps his servos behind him, at the base of his spinal strut. “But having once met Sentinel, I have faith that the Primacy is finally on the right path. Optimus is a good mech.” 

“And if he fails?” 

Prowl meets his gaze firmly. “I shall have to be certain he does not.” There is so much conviction in Prowl's tone that Sunstreaker finds himself nearly forming a faith of his own in the new Prime, this Optimus who holds the fate of Cybertron in his newly-crafted servos. 

Sunstreaker does not trust the Senate, the High Council, or the Primes. But he does trust Prowl, he believes in the former Enforcer's convictions. And if Optimus has enough sense to bring Prowl in as his tactician, perhaps he is not as large a fool as his predecessors. 

“He made a good choice,” Sunstreaker says. “The best. He's lucky to have you.” 

Prowl's lips quirk upward in a faint smile. “Thank you.” He unclasps his servos, offering one. “Good luck, Sunstreaker.” 

“And to you as well.”

o0o0o

Sunstreaker doesn't know what to call it. Fate or luck or the hand of Primus or maybe pure chance. But he and Tracks aren't home when the Decepticons bomb the Towers. They are returning from meeting with a potential client, a delusional mech determined to keep his functioning the status quo despite the chaos, when the dark sky lights up with explosions and the scream of Seeker engines.

Tracks skids, nearly collides with another mech, and bursts into his root mode, staring with evident horror at the fireball that their home had become. Sunstreaker's transformation is equally awkward, his spark a clench of distress in his chassis. 

“I don't understand,” Tracks is saying, more to himself but Sunstreaker can hear him anyway. “We were Neutral!” His servos form fists at his side, energy field a wave of desolation and despair. 

Sunstreaker says nothing. He has no words and the few he might have, feel juvenile. He had guessed, long ago, that Neutral means nothing to the Decepticons. 

The streets are getting clogged with citizens, all shifting to root-mode, all staring with horror at the destruction of the once-beautiful skyline. Mechs and femmes alike are gaping. Somewhere, a sparkling is crying. Adults are keening as well. 

Nearby, a mech drops to his knees, a mournful warble filling the night-cycle, his frame slumped in misery. 

“Out of the street!” Someone shouts. “Run!” 

Sunstreaker hears them long before he sees them, the sound of battle-class engines, Seeker engines. He hears something that's like a piercing shriek, a sharp rap-rap-rap that echoes above everything else. And then the ground rumbles and the world shatters. 

Fire. 

Fire and smoke and the feel of servos grasping at his armor. 

Sunstreaker hits the ground hard, systems screaming errors at him, his left leg a mangled wreck of pain and agony. His visuals perform an automatic reset, but all he can see is a haze of smoke and energon splattered around him, so bright against the dark of the street. He coughs, ventilations stuttering on ash, and _that sound_ , it's still there, shrieking and getting louder. 

There's shouting. Someone trips over his frame, their pede impacting Sunstreaker's mid-section and he grunts in pain. Someone else tramples on his leg and Sunstreaker shouts, vision fritzing with static. Primus, it hurts. 

He has to get up. He has to run. He has to... Tracks? Where is his brother?

Sunstreaker pulls himself up, helm swinging back and forth. “Tracks!” he shouts, spark hammering in his chest like it's trying to burst free. “Tracks!” He tries his brother's comm and gets dead air. 

Nothing. Like a blanket of silence has been dropped on the city. 

Sunstreaker looks down at his leg, which is a mangled mess of circuitry and plating and energon pooling beneath him. His HUD is already shouting errors at him, warning him of energon loss. Cold sweeps through Sunstreaker's systems, pain stabbing him in all directions. His paint is charred and there's heat at his backplate. 

Something's on fire. 

Mechs are running, screaming, crying. The sound of Seeker engines still fill the sky above him, along with the noise of weapons-fire. 

He needs to stop the leaking somehow. Sunstreaker has no medical training whatsoever but that seems pretty obvious to him. He pulls out his polishing cloth and a few strips of metallic mesh, kept on hand when he used to sketch. 

He needs to find Tracks. He needs a medic and to get away. He can hear fighting, the sound of metal against metal, and the world shudders again. Something explodes. Everything is a blur of fire and smoke and his vents stutter again, choking on the ash. 

“Sunny!” 

His helm swings around, hearing his brother's voice. He shouts for him again, peering into the smoky dim. “I'm here!” 

Tracks limps into view, one arm dangling at his side, energon streaked down his frame. But he's mobile, and that's what matters to Sunstreaker. He's injured, but it's not life-threatening. 

“The Decepticons are bombing Protihex,” Tracks says as he drops to his knees beside Sunstreaker, one hand running over the gold frame. “Primus, your leg.” 

“It hurts,” Sunstreaker says, unable to hide the relief in his energy field. 

Tracks worries at his bottom lip. “You need a medic,” he says. “We have to get out of here.” His optics shift away, trying to peer through the madness. 

“There's nowhere to go.” Sunstreaker struggles to pull in a ventilation, his plating clamped closely to his frame. “We can't go home.” 

“No, we can't.” Tracks ex-vents softly and stoops, throwing Sunstreaker's arm over his good shoulder. “Come on. We have to get out of the street.” 

Pain lances through Sunstreaker's sensor net as Tracks jerks him up. He struggles to balance on the one limb, everything Prowl had taught him about focus entirely forgotten. 

A gasp escapes from Tracks' vents. “Come on, Sunny. You have to help me out here.” 

“I'm trying,” he grits out, struggling to get his one functional leg beneath him as he throws his arm over Tracks' shoulders. 

The ground shudders again, throwing off his balance. He clings to Tracks' side, ignoring a hiss of pain when his digits skitter off an open wound. The smell of ash and charred energon is so thick in the air it burns. 

“Where are we going?” 

“Somewhere out of the streets,” Tracks says. “We need shelter.” 

Sunstreaker cycles his optics through a variety of settings, at last having another use for the range of acuity. “There's a building over there. It's still standing,” he says, pointing in a vaguely leftward direction. “It's close enough.” 

“Then that's where we'll go.” 

It's a grueling trip, Sunstreaker stumbling as Tracks tries to drag him toward the dubious shelter. Explosions rattle through the air, the ground rumbles, but the press of a frantic crowd has gone at least. All that's left are the sounds of mechs and femmes groaning in pain, pleading for help from anyone who might answer. It's chaos. 

“I told them,” Tracks mutters, sounding frustrated and broken all at once. “I told Clarity that we couldn't reason with them. But they wouldn't listen, frag it. Creds aren't enough, I argued. Frag them all!” 

Exhaustion sets in. Sunstreaker sags, his lower extremities feeling cold. His HUD screams another warning at him, shouting about energy loss. Quarternary functions have already shut down and Tertiary systems have begun a countdown. 

Something in the distance explodes into a ball of red-hot flame. Blaster fire echoes in a sharp rapport. It's getting closer. 

“Almost there,” Tracks says as Sunstreaker's digits tighten in their grip. 

The pain is too sharp, too sudden. Sunstreaker's ventilations stagger, heat spilling through his frame in an unwelcome wave. His helm throbs to the same frantic beat of his spark. His world goes grey around the edges. 

“Sunstreaker!” 

His optics snap open, frame rattling left and right as Tracks gives him a hard shake. “Don't offline on me. I need you aware and focused.” 

“M'not,” Sunstreaker replies, and surprises himself with the glitchy slur. He sags a bit more against his brother, who grunts at the additional weight. 

Tracks adjusts his grip, hauls Sunstreaker higher, and takes another few steps.

There's a loud rattle and then Tracks gives him a harsh jerk. Sunstreaker yelps as he's pulled inside a building, some kind of general shop by the look of things. Turning to kick the door shut, Tracks loses his grip and Sunstreaker clatters to the floor, jarring his shattered leg. 

“Ow!” 

A rattle and a clunk, a shriek of protesting guide-rails and the door shuts, sealing them inside. Sunstreaker tries to pull himself upright, leaning against the low wall beneath the front window. He's panting hard, pain making it difficult to think. 

“We should be safe here,” Tracks says as he comes back to Sunstreaker, kneeling in front of him. 

“For now,” Sunstreaker grunts. 

“Yes, for now. Let me see that leg.” Tracks' servos gingerly run over the ruined plating, shredded lines, and twisted metal. “This is going to have be completely rebuilt.” 

“So you're a medic now?” 

Tracks gives him a long look. “You don't design frames without knowing a bit about how they work.” He sighs, glancing over his shoulder. “There has to be something here we can use to seal the lines.” 

The world's going grey again. Sunstreaker makes a noncommittal noise, feeling his frame sag against the wall, metal skritching against metal. He tries to catch himself but his arms flop uselessly. His chassis aches, a familiar pain. 

Tracks is talking. He can see his brother's lipplates moving, feel the worried and fearful edge in Tracks' field, but he can hear nothing. There's a weird rushing in his audials, a strange numbness from his motor cables. 

And then the grey darkens to black.

o0o0o

His existence becomes a blur of input. Sights and sounds and colors and scents. This blur is too familiar and the clawing sensation of fear strikes him from nowhere. Not Malus. Not again.

“Be careful!” his brother yells and Sunstreaker feels himself being lifted by an invisible force. 

No. Tracks is here. Not Malus. He's safe. 

The scent of hot metal invades his olfactory sensors. 

His frame jostles and there's pain and then darkness again. A darkness without Tracks and Sunstreaker's shouting but no one hears him. 

Servos on his plating, servos he doesn't know and Sunstreaker jerks, fear turning his insides to a white-hot flush of desperation.

“Shh, shh,” a voice says, and it doesn't help because Malus had shushed him, too. “It's okay.” 

Sunstreaker's vocalizer clicks but no words emerge, except a terrified keen. 

“I'm a medic,” the voice says, trying to be soothing but utterly failing. “I'm going to help you. I promise.” 

Something grasps his arm. There's a pinch, and then it's the darkness again. Sunstreaker is starting to hate that inky, silent black. It's not quite recharge, but something outside of it, where his processor flits about from one purge to the next. 

The darkness lightens to grey. Sensation returns in itchy prickles across his sensory net. His servos twitch. His audials online before his optics, but the itch in his haptic net is the worst. 

“--around any moment now.” 

“Thank you,” he hears, recognizing his brother's distinct tones. 

“My pleasure,” says an unfamiliar voice, similar to the medic's tone when he had been briefly cognizant earlier. “He's got a strong spark, for all that it's... unusual.” 

Tracks' engine rumbles. “If it's all the same to you, I'd prefer if you didn't share that little detail with anyone else, especially your commanding officers.” 

Systems reboot and recalibrate. Sunstreaker's optics online, his world muted shades of color and blurry lines and bright, bright lights. 

“Don't be concerned. I am a medic first. We have rules regarding privacy,” the voice replies and Sunstreaker is starting to recognize it. There is an edge of familiarity to it. “That is, so long as it does not threaten the Prime.” 

“Of course,” Tracks agrees. 

Shapes coalesce, taking form. Sunstreaker cycles his optics and finds himself staring at a pale ceiling, lights bright and annoying. He winces, turning his helm away, only to come face to face with a familiar mech. 

“Hoist,” he says, surprise coloring his tone. 

“You remember me,” the medic replies, clearly delighted. “I am flattered. How are you feeling?” 

Sunstreaker twitches, only to wince again. “Sore,” he replies and turns his helm, spying Tracks sitting nearby. His brother looks completely patched up, his arm restored, the cuts and scores in his plating fixed. His paint is terrible, but merely cosmetic. “Are you..?”

“I'm fine,” Tracks says, backing up the reassurance with a smile. “It's you we were worried about.” 

“Severe energon loss can be a problem,” Hoist agrees. “Luckily, you are in the finest servos that the Helix Academy of Engineering has to offer. You have a new leg as well.” 

Sunstreaker sits up, though Hoist moves to help him, and looks down. He does have a new limb, one protoform bare and unarmored. He'll need new plating and paint to match his own else he'll look horribly mismatched. 

“And we appreciate that,” Tracks says when Sunstreaker finds himself wordless. 

Hoist smiles, patting Sunstreaker on the shoulder as he rises to his pedes. “I recommend medical grade energon while his self-repair is integrating the new leg. He should be one-hundred percent within a few orn.” 

“Again, thank you.” Tracks half-rises, tipping his helm in a respectful bow. 

“Your recovery is all the thanks I need.”

Hoist leaves them alone, door sliding open and shut behind him. 

“Where are we?” Sunstreaker asks, taking the opportunity to look around him. 

It's a small room in a medical bay, no doubt. The shutters on the windows are drawn and there's a thick-paned inner window. They are probably under observation. 

“Iacon.” Tracks rises fully, moving to the window where he draws the shutters. “It is one of the few cities still under Autobot control.” 

Sunstreaker looks down, poking at his bare leg, watching pistons hiss and shift as he attempts to move it. It is strange to see his limb without the protective plating. “Autobot?” 

“That's what they call themselves. The red symbol on Hoist's chestplate is their mark.”   
Tracks peers into an inky night cycle. “They are remnants of the Senate's guard, plus merchants, civilians, you name it. They say they fight against the Decepticons.” 

Sunstreaker sighs, leaning back against the head of the berth, frowning. “You don't believe them?” 

“I do. I am disappointed it has come to this.” Tracks turns away from the window, returning to the chair where he sits with a gravity that belies his upbringing. “They are led by Optimus Prime.” 

“The self-same mech Prowl serves?” 

“The very one.” 

Sunstreaker's helm dips, contemplating. This Decepticon uprising has become too much if it requires another faction to fight against it. 

“They did their best but we are some of the few survivors from the attack on the Towers,” Tracks continues, his gaze distant and his energy field flat. “There's nothing left.” 

Sunstreaker's digits draw together on one servo, the other tracing the bare protoform of his leg. “What now?” 

“The Autobots have arranged transport for all survivors to a Neutral colony. It leaves at the start of day shift.” 

“No.” 

He feels Tracks' optics on him and Sunstreaker looks up, meeting his brother's gaze. “No. I'm not going to some Neutral colony.” 

Tracks frowns, his orbital ridge flattening. “What are you talking about?” 

Sunstreaker shakes his helm, nameless emotions squirming around his spark. “I want to fight. I want to do something more than cower in fear.” 

“We're not fighters.” 

“We'll learn.” 

“We'll just get ourselves scrapped.” 

Sunstreaker flattens his servo over his chestplate, feeling the burn of his spark beneath. “Then we'll have died for something rather than of something.” 

Tracks ex-vents loudly, servo sliding down his faceplate as he sags in his chair. His optics offline. “I don't understand you anymore.” 

_You never did_. But Sunstreaker doesn't say as much aloud. It's unnecessarily harsh. Tracks has tried, which is more than most mechs have, and that's what has always been important. The attempt. 

“I'm going to fight,” Sunstreaker says, and surprises himself with the conviction in his tone. “You can go to the colony.” 

Tracks' mouthplates flatten with disapproval. “I'm not going to leave you here, Sunstreaker. That's not how this works.” 

_You don't owe me anything_. Sunstreaker never says that either though he has thought it often enough over the vorns. 

“I hope I am not interrupting anything.” 

Sunstreaker stiffens at the unexpected voice. He awkwardly turns on the berth, looking to the doorway, where a red and white mech waits expectantly. The red crest of the Autobots is prominent on his chestplate, but there is another symbol as well, one Sunstreaker does not recognize. 

“A family debate, nothing more,” Tracks says with practiced, polite ease. He straightens in his chair. “Have you found any more survivors?” 

The mech shakes his helm, stepping fully inside so that the door can slide shut behind him. “We have not, unfortunately. The Decepticons were quite thorough.” 

Blue optics track to Sunstreaker, giving an assessing glance. “You are looking in better repair, Sunstreaker. I am glad to see it.” 

“Red Alert was a part of the team that rescued us,” Tracks explains as Sunstreaker starts to bristle. 

His indignation deflates before it manages to build up much steam. “Thanks,” Sunstreaker says. 

“It was luck that we found you,” Red Alert replies. “There isn't much left in Crystal City anymore. It's a ruin.” His plating lifts and flattens, a soft sigh escaping his vents. “I've come to inform you that you have a place on the next orn's shuttle. I'll return to escort you when it is about to depart.” 

“We're not going,” Sunstreaker says. 

Red Alert turns, an orbital ridge lifting. 

“What he means,” Tracks hastily interjects, rising to his pedes, “is that we would prefer to join the Autobots rather than run away.” 

“You do know that it's not required? We didn't help you to force you to join our ranks,” Red Alert explains, a cautious relief in his tone. “This is war. Mechs are dying. You shouldn't make such a decision lightly.” 

“Cowering in a Neutral colony is no safer than joining the fight here and now.” Sunstreaker's servo slides down from his chestplate, landing in his lap. “There's no such thing as Neutrality. Not in this.” 

Red Alert tilts his helm. “Optimus Prime respects Neutrality.” 

“And Megatron doesn't.” Sunstreaker lifts his chin and yes, he knows the name of the villain, the enemy. He has paid enough attention to the vids, to the rough and craggy voice bellowing about freedom and dignity while ripping the sparks out of any mech standing in his way. “If you're not a Decepticon, you're an enemy. His destruction of the Towers has made that clear.” 

Silence ripples through the tiny medroom. 

“It's our decision,” Tracks finally says in a quiet tone. “We have no skills, no experience, but we can learn. We can help.” 

“Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on your point of view, we Autobots are largely comprised of mechs with little military experience. You will not be out of place.” Red Alert offers them a faint smile. “I will present your petition to my superior officers but I have no doubt you will be accepted.” 

A few lines of polite chatter later and Red Alert leaves them alone, with a promise to send another Autobot at a later date to explain the rules, regulations, and what would be required of them. 

Tracks cycles a ventilation, sinking back down in his chair. He turns his helm toward the window, bracing his chin on his servo. “I cannot decide if Nightfall would be proud or dismayed by this.” 

“Nightfall's not here,” Sunstreaker says and there's an edge to his tone that he can't restrain no matter how much he tries. “We're on our own.” 

“Not entirely.” Tracks energy field stretches out then, reaching for Sunstreaker's, warm with affection and exasperation both. “I'm still your brother. And I'm still here.” 

Sunstreaker's lipplates twitch. “Yes, you are,” he agrees and returns the pulse of warmth with affection and gratitude of his own. 

Together. Come what may.

End Act II 


End file.
